The studio we live in is a square with a capacity built for one. Our desks pushed up against the wall because that was the only place they could fit. We have our places to sleep, a tv divided between both are attention spans and piles and shelves of stuff. Drawers, boxes, even side tables filled with the remnants of years collected. The space itself has its own set of issues that shove against our faltering coping mechanisms. We scrimmage for bits of space and understanding in this quadrant because it felt like it was all we could claim as our own in this sphere. Everything felt cluttered so often that assembling mounds of bitter words sometimes seemed fit.