Someone broke a bottle again; the glass was collecting under the sofa and in the cracks of wooden floor planks. Someone could step on that glass and rip a gash in their foot, peeling back skin to the raw underdeveloped flesh beneath, but now we only spoke about it. “Someone should clean that shit up” we barked, and “tear the fucking floor apart, use it for kindling.” The toilet leaked to no one. The wastebin gaped at its trash filled maw, impressed at its own capacity. Someone carved a pattern into the bookcase, and sawdust and splinters joined their fellow felled matter inbetween. We really failed at this one, guys, someone whispered. It was hushed for a moment; you could practically hear the sound of static droning from our ears, pulsating at the beating blood in our eardrums and the sonic repercussions of playing music altogether too loud.