The sun makes my glasses shine and my eyes squint.
Crows and seagulls float effortlessly in the sky, looking for food.
Holes poked in bags, dry chow mein noodles crushed under my sandals, all over the balcony floor.
An empty, not yet, bag of cereal, flakes strewn around it, like the fluids of a corpse, escaping a gashing stomach wound and two burning ember bullet holes.

The dark chair in the corner of my balcony is made of plastic string, woven around a metal frame.
When it rains the drops slide off the curved and repetitive strings.

I sit on a white lawn chair, or balcony chair.
If I scratch the arm rest with my dirty nails a layer of dry dirt and paint peel off.

A can of beer on a round, three legged table, white and metallic. It cools me, and makes my speech slur. Under the table, a mess of old, moist bird food and butts and bottle caps.

The trail of butts leads to a white trash bin. Our ash tray. As the rainy days happened, the bin filled with water. The water is brown. We joke that when it all evaporates we will have liquid nicotine, deadly if touched.

Is there anything that maximizes our perceptual limits and triggers all our senses simultaneously?
Everything, if we know ourselves.