To Noir Apartments (first letter)

Each of you makes up an abbreviated, insular ecosophy. You integrate an enclosed material environment with the desires of a mental space trying to re-constitute itself.
The social world is kept out in the cold.
As a child I’d try to will one of you into being. I wanted my own place with my own rules — a fortress of repose that could always provide the time and space necessary for meaningful reflection.
I’d watch your kind on screen and vicariously inhabit states of elusively pleasurable, melancholic stasis.
I thought I knew what it was like to be blind drunk on whiskey long before I ever tasted the stuff.
I was always worried about being on the street. Each time a key turned on screen — every moment someone hung their hat and closed the door — I’d sigh with relief and be filled with wishful thinking. That would be my goal, to have that at least. You and I are not so different. Each of you might hypothetically contain me but only to the extent that I am able to desire it. We are one in the same — as unreal as each other.
You persist in me as though I were a kind of lacking host.