My ankles turn to jelly beneath me and I fall against the wall with a thwack; I slide down it in an impossible contortion, melting towards my legs. I put my arm up to a door handle, a book shelf, a bench. In this case, let's say a door handle. I try to pull my body out of itself and up—up standing like I want. But as I pull it the handle snaps off, leaving the unstained circle of wood grain beneath. My hand falls away with the handle, rolling away together to safety somewhere, underneath the couch, the coffee table or the sleeping dog. Let's say the couch. My eyelids melt over my face and in my last glimpse of the room I search for someone around me to notice. But nobody does. They talk to me and I respond from underneath myself in muffled mumbles, feeling nothing but my heartbeat and the heavy muck of me blocking my nose and sliding into my ears. Eventually, the muck makes its way inside and I slowly re-inflate. My hand reluctantly crawls back.