Days pass by and everything stays constant, the wind blows, the sun rises and sets, the trees stretch their branches to the sky, the birds sing, the bees hum, the world turns, and turns, and turns. And I am to believe that I'm meaningful, I'm a mere speck on the continuum. I am a mere dot, living on a pale blue dot, living in an ever expanding universe, that is a dot in another universe and so on, and so forth. Merely everything and nothing, I am, I am, spinning and spinning, living and dieing.


There's a screen window here, a small hole in its right corner. it's been there since I was young. It never looked so old. Slightly rusted and worn. Not as taunt in its frame but who isn't with age. A little loose in our frames that is. that same black oak branch is reaching toward my window. The one that spit shadows against my wall when I was four. I was so scared of those shadows. Now they watch over me. They know who I am. What I am. How I am. There is a closet here, slightly cracked. As if someone is peering thorough at me and there are. The faces of thousands of old baseball players staring at me. Those musty old cards stacked miles high on the top shelves. I must have a million. How I love them. How I love them so. It smells of dust and gauze. Oh how I've become accustomed to those smells. They linger in my nose even as I leaver. They run deep into the fabric of my clothes. I don't mind them, those smells. I have grown quite fond of them as well as the fresh gauze that wrap my empty cold heart. Where every room is a prison, I stay hidden.