You wake up, but not really, in the bedroom you grew up in. It's the only place on this entire plane that's yours. The only place on the planet that understands you. It understands the way your nerves flare every time you think about talking to anyone, scared into shyness at the thought of opening your mouth, but the way you are the best hypocrite around when you're in front of a microphone. It knows what turns that switch on and off again. It understands the way when you don't have a smile on your face everyone only spits: "What's wrongs?" and "You look tireds" So the way you keep it on your face just wide enough to avoid questions. It understands how neurotic you have become, the way you treat you flaws like old friends. The way you look in the mirror and think of yourself as "Mr. Misery."