A broken chair creeks in protest as I surrender to the gravity that batters me throughout the day. My arms hang heavy, like sides of beef, and my head rolls back and around as a fountain of withheld smoke evacuates from the empty pits of my chest.
The window, open wide, blows in frigid night-time that cuts to my bones. I make no move to close it.
In vain I blink my tearless eyes. The LCD has baked them dry like corn chips for what feels like days now. The ashtray overflows and spills soot and cancer out over my keyboard. I make no move to clean it.
I look up to see myself looking back down on me, and frowning. I lift my middle finger towards the heavens to exorcise my meta-cognitive manifestation. I know he's still watching.
Even that music that once washed me clean and patched my mind and soul, like a childhood blanket, simply lingers in the air. It floats through my ears and leaves a tasteless residue on my mind's tongue.
Empty words spill out of emotionless hands to faceless names a world away. I tell myself they love me, and die when they fade away.
I've become a moth hunter. They serve me no purpose, but to look on them gives me joy. They simply seek the flame to engulf them, and set them free. Yet I keep trying to catch them and put them in my empty little jars, so I can watch them closely and tell myself they love me.
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