All My Children

She lays still, a tall thin figure reduced to a diminutive bump under the antique white quilt of the massive dark wood bed. She is rolled onto her side in a fetal position facing away from me towards the nearest wall, her long dark hair in disarray, the covers barely disturbed around her. The lighting is dim and the drapes are pulled tight against the domineering sunshine. The delicate peach pink color of the expensive shag carpet pervades the room, even on the several steps that lead up to the spaceous bathroom. Despite the rich surroundings, a feeling of stagnation and depression fills the air.

The woman thinks to herself, "I am depressed because of All My Children."

At the time, I think she is referring to the soap opera of the same name, but after I wake up, I wonder if she meant something else.