A man without white blood cells rents a studio apartment in Echo Park. It has high ceilings and exposed brick walls. A half Siamese kitten sleeps in his kitchen sink. There’s a faux mahogany desk in the corner littered with letters to and from various publishing companies. Next door, a woman is doing research on the newest pharmaceutical drugs. Next door, Meryl Streep is making someone’s mother cry. Next door, a pair of newlyweds are leaning how to synchronize their orgasms.
The man without white blood cells has blue and white pills stuck down his throat; he sets his lips on the bathroom faucet and sucks. The mail has arrived; a Nel Noddings book and coupons for American Spirits. The man without white blood cells has a projector instead of a television. He watches a game show from the seventies with the sound off. A record spins for Ian Curtis.