The apartment is upstairs, a classic building from the 1920’s. The tenants are away for most of the day and night. They come to sleep, to wake up, and to have breakfast, arguably to shower and to leave. Nothing happens past the kitchen. The living room is unused; the sofa is dusted, as most the furniture in the room. Who watches TV nowadays? Who has time for enjoying a relaxing day in the house when there’s so much to live outside? What kind of living creatures lounges under the sofa? Outside is cleaner. The kitchen hasn’t been used as well, maybe a bowl of cereal, a fried egg pan, a couple of cups. They were barely hand washed and left it on the counter, used the next day, and the next day, and the day after that; they are left at the same place. The coffee mug is black, a smart idea preventing from the extreme stains as the last white one. At least, the kitchen is used. Something is being done there from time to time. There’s mold in the fridge, a jar of water, a half-empty bottle of white wine, and an old piece of lemon. There’s mold in the bathroom as well, it’s safe to say that besides that it’s clean. The yellow spot in the corner of the shower is still small, just a little reminder that things are growing rotten inside. It has been rotten for a while; things are beginning to be visible. There’s no love in the bedroom. The bed sheets are picked up at night the same way they are left in the morning. A small pile of dirty clothes on the floor complete the apartment charm. That same t-shirt left on the floor on Tuesday morning is washed on Sunday to be worn Monday all day. It will be joined by the jeans (worn Monday to Friday), second pairs of jeans are kept for special events. Shirts are worn to cover the stained t-shirts. When those are stained, new shirts are bought at any fast-fashion store to replace them; quickly, they are added to the pile. No life except the infectious kind can survive living there. Life has been taken from them, and they continue to live. They are just trespasser of their own life.