I’ve chewed all of my cuticles, except the pinkies, to shreds. The guy in the room above me is playing nervous, repetitive guitar and I can’t stop bouncing my leg up and down. I feel trapped and every time I try to take a deep breath, my heart quickens rather than slows down. I can’t focus. I want to run away. Little bits of cuticle litter the carpet. It’s a wonder the plants aren’t all dying. The air is stifling me and yet the plants grow. I must be the oppressor. We suffer in silence, in small rooms with drawn shades and closed doors while our neighbors through thin walls stifle their sobs in soft tissues. The cuticles now neatly torn away, I’ve picked a scab on the back of my hand. The nerves are spent and the skin shows it.