An analysis of the cluttered tendencies of the young whore (me), a reservation from the freedom of being alone and habitual nesting among my possessions, curating an empty softness for which to lay and stare, think, touch myself. I desire rest then keep myself awake with hours of youtube videos 6 inches from my face. Sort of a recreation of the uterine lining as I curl up in fetal position, watch biopics, politics, real housewives. I’ll bring out a loaf of bread and eat it in pieces. My laundry sits in piles, done in large loads, clean but not put away. I make lists. This is a tired exercise in self preservation and stagnation. Not in a depressing way, like I’m depressed, but I must admit this is the behavior of a depressed person. It used to feel rebellious and free, now its gone stale. It is no longer erotic or cozy, restful or entertaining, yet I feel called to this behavior on nights I spend alone, as it is my baseline, my constant practice.