Earlier, Robert bought a six pack of 11.6 ounce bottles of Elephant malt liquor, and now he’s looking at it. He’s glad he’s alone in his bedroom with a black plastic bag and some paper packaging and six glass bottles and six caps of some sort of metal. He’s glad that when he touches the bare glass his fingertips become moist. He thinks of going downstairs to get a glass and some ice. He opens the first bottle of malt liquor. He looks out the window. He sits on his bed with his legs straight out and his back against the wall. His shirt is off. It’s eight PM. The sun is out. He sees people in the park across the street. He feels like he understands them and empathizes with them. He is sorry they have problems. He wants to help them but understands he can’t, in any tangible way, but only abstractly, by living the best he possibly can. Robert starts to drink Elephant malt liquor. He cries. He is listening to Broken Social Scene. He thinks of calling someone, and then he thinks of throwing his phone out the window, or maybe breaking it somehow less dramatically, or maybe just I don’t know, I don’t know how I could somehow make my drunken fictional self not call her while not breaking my phone, I’m not sure how I can do this. He wipes his tears. He thinks of what he’s glad about. He drinks more and more Elephant malt liquor until there is only one bottle left and then he looks at it and thinks of what he’s glad about. Robert sleeps.