It looks and feels like the 1970s.
I've never been much of a dystopian. I'm having a very hard time. I sleep through as much of the day as I can and narcotize myself at night. I try to remember my dreams of being a flaneur, but there is no place to wander. I imagine it is me, my situation, stuck inside these padded rooms, my world shrunken to a few hundred feet with an unescapable "Gunsmoke" soundtrack, commercials selling grave plots and catheters.
"They never show old people on these shows, do they?"
She'd rather watch reruns of "The Golden Girls." She laughs along with the laugh tracks.
I can't look in the mirror. I shrivel. I shrink. I fade away. Going. . . going. . . .