The clothes are folded in the corner of the old barn, and the screen full of holes still unpleasantly let the light through. The splat of water seemed to dilute distant conversations, and the wooden floor passed dirty water back into the ground through the cracks. The steam rises above the bathroom, but for some reason Paul doesn't seem to be in a hurry to climb inside. Tired? No, tired bad word. The body seems to be drowning in hot water, and it shimmers from the edge of the bathtub, beating on the floor like a heavy rain, the tired head of the man leans back on the side of the wooden bathtub and he just looks at the ceiling. This dirt can't be washed off the soul.