Upstairs above the corner bakery in the very back of the hallway, a man sat alone in his room beside a desk with a bottle of vodka and a shot glass. Every few minutes the man would fill the shot glass up to the rim, not quite to the very top, and, after setting the vodka bottle back on the desk, and staring at the almost, but not-quite-full shot glass for a while (and this “while” would vary from time to time), he would throw back his head and pour the vodka down his throat in complete silence. After his head was brought back into the proper position, a sound would start to rattle his belly and something would rise up from the depths of his soul, something full of gastrointestinal promises of glory. But after traveling what seemed a great distance, this sound would extinguish itself in a quiet burp. Behind him through the window a faint light was showing but it was not possible to know whether it was early morning or early evening. The man drank as if nothing else mattered in the world. After some time the room grew darker around him and the drinking man grew fainter until he was completely swallowed by the absence of light.

All that remained was the sound of his gut, repeatedly failing to keep its promises.