Forth Floor.

You're resting in your underwear,

Your flesh is sticking to the chair,

The lights are bright, the music's on,

The breeze is drifting in through a cracked window.

Four floors up.

Shores you up.

As the sound of youth echoes up towards the balcony,

And your lover sighs and turns a page at the edge of hearing.

As you drain your cup of juice,

And type away the night,

With dregs of meals past and passing spilt upon the floor.

As you tap out rhythmic signals to a light outside the door,

And the breeze sighs through the pot plant and catches your eye.

You can't say why,

But you feel at peace.

And if this is all there is,

This room on the fourth floor,

This breeze, the ease in which you sit your chair,

The ascent made by lifts with feet upon no stair,

If this is all there is, your lover in the bed with a book

And a hook to draw you in and make you forget who you were,

If this is all there is and nothing more,

And you are washed up upon the shore of the fourth floor,

Everything you were is nothing more,

And this is all there is.

Then you'll be pleased.

The lights are bright, the music's on.

The page turns,

And he sighs away your life with every breath.

Ecstatic death.