the stuff of farce

inside a little house that grew bigger, with more on the floor, writings on the wall. mornings with the superego that flew into the air and overtook the jackass who started it. always someone else. evenings a few flights down, with the tv, food and argument. the occasional celebration filled with tense labor for obscure satisfaction. the stairs always grow longer, the bigger house has lesser people inside, their voices like mine, muted and scared. the smaller house had more fire. but they fit with each other, in alarming synchronicity. the tempo always of trying to squeeze more life from two hours, with a tenuous anchor to look forward to. the occasional disaster to switch from obtuse to acute. a continuous heartbeat of choice between now and the future. discontent and fatuousness. a growing assurance of the lack of meaning of any pursuit not accompanied by the music of money, the approval of society. as if our whole existence depended on it. footfalls filled with averted eyes.


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