Mr. Candlemeyer’s lawn chair sat there silently, empty, and unfolded on the east-facing patio of his quaint 3-bedroom apartment. He often left his patio door wide open, welcoming the blare of the desolate sun, as it slightly burned a part of the cement ground that the orange patterned lawn chair quietly stood upon. The air of the apartment basked in its introversion while a large pine isolated the kitchen from the view of most of his prying neighbors. Two plants grew side by side in bland colored medium-sized pots, alone, yet firmly aware of their surroundings as they slowly pondered their age and growth. The railing that surrounded the patio was made of thick black iron, and the bars that circled the patio caged its abode to the visceral reality that surrounded it at times.