I'm sitting in a small room with a very high ceiling. There isn’t much light or natural air, the one window surrounded by the corpses of out-of-date electronics. There isn’t much of anything, really, just a few couches and an obtrusive square coffee table. The couches are filthy, covered with sad, dusty-looking quilted blankets. On the walls: a few ugly paintings made by the apartment’s previous inhabitants, which remained up because the new renters felt guilty throwing “art” in the trash.