I would say the hour approaches, but that’s just the clock playing up it’s purpose. I would decry the hand that’s been dealt, but I gaffed the deck myself. It’s a typical description of a nondescript life, poor choices and bad turns, ignominy and pockets turned inside out. Due dates and remembrances that should be forgotten. I sit with Pixies in a haunted house as animals pace and prowl. I sit with Liz Phair amid debris and detritus, every deck a desertion. The clock breaks the plane of midnight. The hour is now.
The screen is smudged, my glasses are dirty. Somebody ought to see to that, but the impoverishment is on the inside too. Dust and spiders fill the frame. There is a lack of much, there is a dearth of more, there is no there there. The riot act is a litany and all the sooth has been said. Life’s a mystery, so you should start at the end and work backwards. Life’s a sentence and it runs on and on.
I’m not quite finished, but I am done. I had a third act in mind, but the writing went wrong. Mostly it’s mundane and miserable, and well above my pay grade. Love left on in another room in a cupboard, simple tasks elude my grasp as I pine and bristle, never quite not human enough. A bulb burns behind me, its light sullen and wan. I still have no idea. Not a thought that will profit, not a blessing that will bloom. There is good, and there is beauty. There are multitudes of wonders waiting for the right eyes to find them, all manner of beasts to covet and burden, birthdays that will be celebrated long after my candle has been snuffed. So have a little cake before it happens to you.
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