Shade

The house is clean and it's only me.
Somehow it's more lonely when I put music on,
and it washes over the delicate hum of the computer's fan.

In vain, in vain, always in vain! I try to pin-point the crucial moments;
I break open the encyclopedia of past indiscretions,
that letter-perfect Rolodex that records Brady's moronic
fumbling for emancipation
from this
vast, gray expanse of being; this yawning purgatory; this polite oh well; this
heavy-hearted sigh and throwing up of arms.

I fought.
Smashed my knuckles in.
Teeth chipped on fists.

Now, age is creeping on, and now even ego is leaving.