It’s no wonder I’m anxious: my apartment is so cluttered it cannot help but produce a cluttered mind. Although I stretch out my legs, my feet hit the wall behind my desk. In front of me is a bottle of putrid water, weeks old, wrappers from cookies and crackers, also crumbs that scattered when I opened the packages. To make room I grab the empty coke can and two plastic bottles and toss them over my shoulder. My shirt, which feels confining, I throw across the room unto my bed. It lands with precision on a similarly discarded heap of clothes. There is, also on my desk, loose change, some melted white chocolate, pens and batteries, tape, my keys, and two boxes of tissue, one is empty, so I toss it on the ground. The ground has dust and wrappers, receipts, empty boxes of cookies, discarded papers and books, a jumbled mass of wires leading to the various electronic devices that make up my workspace. There are four cans of vanilla coke, which I usually don’t drink but were so severely discounted I brought home. My school bag, a fan, all the clothes I’ve worn since the last time I’ve done laundry. I’ll clean it later, I say, as I always do. But why clean when there are so many more important things to do, like write or paint? Outside some religious group is playing that terrible music, with all the banging cymbals, rhythmless percussion, and warbling, high pitched screechy noises. My window can’t be closed enough to shut them out, and they are very, very loud. Nevertheless, I don’t feel so bad today.