Paper Street, 00:43 AM.

Cold drops dripped down the edges of the walls, falling from the ceiling, landing on torn magazines and the cracked wooden floor, giving the false impression that, at any moment, the entire house could flood. Just like the basement, which was already on its way to becoming an aquarium.

It was raining so hard outside that it felt like any stronger wind would blow away that rotten pile they called a ‘home,’ sending it far from here.

Your eyes scanned over a random wet magazine you'd grabbed from the towering piles, reading blurred or torn words about pointless things—in Tyler’s words—or about speaking internal organs.

"I am Jack's colon..." You read aloud to Tyler, only to be interrupted before you could finish. "I get cancer, I kill Jack," Tyler responded, laughing in a childishly eccentric way, like a teenager who had just answered ‘ham’ in roll call, while spinning around the house on a small bicycle.

I'm Jack's wasted life.

No power, no TV. Another normal rainy night on Paper Street, two insomniacs looking for something interesting to pass the time, since sleep is the one thing they can't seem to do.