The carpet in the living room is haunted by the ghosts of piss piddling and dropped food, the shag mottled and caked with the forever-shadow of a life lived and wasted and spilled on the carpet. The room is smaller than most rooms. There are no windows. There is a light, dim in the corner, so that the room looks like some primitive cave in which we, two quiet sinners and a dying dog, are huddled, dreaming silently away from the dying fire, the drab wall a strange and unfeeling stone.
