Max woke to the torturous echo of his alarm clock. The numbers always being off but that was something to be fixed later, wasn’t it? Narroly acoiding the plethora of water bottles and fast food cups that surrounded said clock on his nightstand he sat up. Feeling the crumbs that made home in his sheets at his ankles as he removed said cover and stood up, facing the late afternoon in just a t-shirt. His light blocking navy curtains had spread a mere bit, this ray of light likely what awoke him, or was it the sound, who’s to say what came first. Now barefoot in the light of his minimalist room and the sunlight of 1pm he stepped over the spilled case of guitar picks that plagued the bottom of his bed. His ocd tendencies plagued his life, which directly reflected in his apartment, a place for anything and everything. He bent over to scramble together the scattered picks and return them to the case and thus immediately the drawer as well. How something could go this array in Max’s den, the only logical explanation was his night of drinking last night or the insomnia he had been facing.