Bartosz Cichonski

THE ZE

Home. Walking in the front entrance, I passed the growing piles of miscellaneous trash and evidence of gut wrenching degeneracy. Half of a wall was charred black, burnt some time ago with ashy foot and hand prints around the place. In the middle of what was once a living room was a heavily stained couch with bits of foam ripped out and spewed madly onto the floor. Down the hallway there was carpeting pulled apart and terribly worn with piles of cans, bottles and magazines strewn around the place. The only thing that held any real human value that was left here, was the random etchings and graffiti left upon the walls floors and ceilings, wherever a fevered dream seemed to have taken place. I checked each room to see if I was alone. Robby lay still and silent in one of the rooms, seemingly passed out and lost into it again. Was he still here since I left two days ago? I saw from afar that he was still breathing. By his side I placed a can of expired spaghetti and a jug of that all too distinct dirt stained water. I walked out closing the door and checked the last rooms to find that they were empty. In the kitchen i carefully pulled back the bottom skirting of the cupboards. The can and two bottles of water I left here were still there so I felt ok to store this nights worth of scavenged supplies here.