In this room, hours pass, a slight corruption of each previous allotted time block—and probably confirm failure and humiliation, which though not ideal, I accept as historically accurate. I'm sick of lifestyle music, the thing between awe and detachment which Hazlitt defines as adrift. I clear my throat remind myself, doors are locked, the ashtray half-full. Unless otherwise noted, light falls from the television— accompanies night, any available other-worldly knowledge. What else? I'm unhappy even at the edge of rivers, conversations regarding weather, any manner of appointment. All comfort requires another voice. Ditto delusion. For instance, these shadows imposed from trees bent by wind and other forms of predictive behavior, may or may not contain consciousness. I'm still working it out. A glass of water grows warm. I have done terrible and middle class things for money. This is not necessarily an acceptable conversation. Things are good. The serotonin reuptake inhibitor fades another winter. If there are things we need, there are things we need less. I face the mirror to say it again with feeling. Understand this is me applying myself. Copyright © 2016 Brett Fletcher Lauer. Used with permission of the author. |
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