Twisted nights are the products of the crumpled sheets and lust is mispronounced as love but when I asked for one lump of sugar, one means one. Credits flick onto the television screen and projects a liquid light into the living room, which happens to be a room you never actually live in because I feel more alive in the kitchen then I do where the television sits on it's stand and brags about shit I may or may not want. But in the kitchen I feel full and I feel appreciated as I try and succeed and fail and succeed anyway. The TV is begging for us to sit down but we're taking it to the bedroom to wind down and meet back in the kitchen to make eggs that match the sun. And our crumpled night made lust twisted sheets. But we didn't break down in front of the television in defeat. We have won another night.