Nowhere to go but up.

They tell you that in the rooms.

Over styrofoam cups of decent coffee, remnants of cigarettes sneaking in to underscore regret.

That at rock bottom, you can only ascend.

Somehow that hole you’ve dug is so narrow you can but climb.

Except when you find a tunnel.

Or make your own.

Shovel strokes convincing you of upward mobility.

That you’re making progress.

Moving for its own sake.

So you dig.

Hoping you’re headed anywhere but further down.