Jobe’s ears were constricted by a new pair of large headphones. Both lobes squished partly out the bottom, and the cartilage lining the tops of his ears reddened by the pressure of form & music. He lay on his bed with an open book face-down resting on a stomach breathing slowly, to the slow beats of his chosen music. The pain of his ears and the music of his device together gave him a freedom he would count on, day-after-day, many days & nights & mornings–whenever he could–to escape or assimilate or cope with the changing environment of his home & of his friends & of his body. “There is no control here–I have no control of anything, I never did…” Posters & magazine clippings, drawings & report cards, calendars & pictures of all sizes, of all sizes of everything, were carefully assembled with double-sided tape to hide the white walls underneath. Once put up, Jobe never took what he taped down. In a sense, there in his room with two focuses, legs crossed at the ankles, hands crossed & intertwined at his chest, open-book being temporarily finished rising & falling to a slow pattern of breath, he simultaneously existed in the accumulation of his past with a sharp pain in his lobes holding him hostage in the present, all to themed music, which he controlled with a flick of thumb. A barren, light brown desk vibrated to three computer fans, caked with years of dust, cooling a computer that hummed at its best & displayed graphic pornography at its worst. “To feel pleasure, to feel it now & now I do not want I do not know, I am in love but the girl does not love me back,” we hear from Jobe. He’s young. An older brother has grown past this stage of Jobe’s in a room adjacent, yet both are in their rooms, “for one’s own space is necessary,” Jobe’s older brother replied. And he too played music, from a stereo. His sounds rang out & vibrated & hummed against the painted walls, underneath the half-inch space between door & low-rise champagne carpet, into the hallway, down the kitchen, into bathrooms, into his brother Jobe’s room who had his own interests. The proof was there, on his walls, the words from his book, the way he crossed things together like his ankles & hands, his eyes when he shut them, pain & music thematically played to passionate, pulsing love heating his body for some current girl to ease the stiffening bone below, nothing more, but Jobe doesn’t know that yet, “he will,” his older brother replies. Somehow we’re all together in this, somehow.