I'm slumped on the floor again, my spine curved up against the bottom of the spongy green couch. I'm worried about my posture, but I can't bring myself to care enough to change my position.

The moment is now, everything is here.

My fingers run over a charred spot on the rug. I can't place how this spot happened. It is carmelized in some spots and blackened in others. Altogether, the spot is about the size of my fist, but it varies greatly in both color and terrain. I am struggling to remember how things happen.

The word happened is not in my vocabulary. How things happen, how they happen now , and how they were happening when then was the now.

The rug is scored with the past, steeped in loss, yet still existing anew.

The rug will not be discarded. It will be embraced. This rug bears the scars of an unfortunate accident. This rug was not burned with intention.

It may eventually be reduced to ashes, maybe not. Maybe it will live on to serve the feet of a new world, underground, sewer dwelling baron. After all, the rug is still beautiful. Some might say it has character.

The rug has no character. The man who sits upon the rug gives it character.