My house is a hodgepodge collection of artifacts that all scheme to ruinously remind me of this space, this vacancy, this role left uncast.
It isn’t that I despair the sight of the twin sink in the bathroom, nor the empty beside table nearest the margin of the oversized mattress which I, even in deepest dreams, have never once explored. It is my inherent and inescapable pattern, this collecting and furnishing my life with such hauntingly hollow things, that seems so painfully foolish.
I don’t know what I’m trying to prove, or what I am left hoping for, these days. It’s just another stone on the beach, a fresh smudge on the glass, a smile I’m not certain I truly remember or rather only once imagined.