My hair is short, stubble. The night is hot and my life is rubble. There are exactly 5 mugs on my desk; my room is a storm of half-scribbled illegible papers and unread books. The lights of a distant road coax me from my window. A field, large and stately – if unruly, separates me from them. They seem to blink “nevermore” like poe’s godforsaken raven. Empty glasses of beer, cans of beer, a glass of whisky; the conqueror worm but in the form of self-loathing. Yeats sits atop a deck of cards; neruda composes in a locked box. Camus lays on an empty plate; I balance chekov on a pen: if a pen is shown in a story it must be used. Is that how it goes? The gun is mightier than the pen; ignorance is plated in gold. The winds of change sputter and die before reaching me, the air is stagnant. Inky blackness, a moth around a light. It flutters and flys hard – dies afterwards. A cockroach attains the light and is praised by the angels for being everything we should aspire to be. He builds a palace on dead moths. The moth, forgotten into ignominy. Brave new world I am forced to inhabit. I sew my lips shut, pull off my fingers with pliers. I sit in the road and wait to die. That is all the world wants.
(just playing around with words, not an indication of my mental state)