studies in D minor

i pick up the onion and note that there are shoots growing from its blind surface, quietly doing their work, branching out inside the plastic baggie and i think to myself everything is alive and the thought fills me with dread. everything is alive but the plants by the window i’m slowly sending to a dry dusty death. tonight i can’t drink fast enough to outpace my metabolism and what’s the point anyway. i’ll sit and let the ice cubes melt. i’ll sit and be alone with my thoughts, the electric dust of the red bulbs misting about my face, sitting in a dark room, a dim red room is somehow more comfortable than this blaring screen of white. damn computers they’ve stolen my ability to write, who needs all this vitality and plastic, who needs this extra brain in front of me, breathing and humming, its goddamn distracting. give me back a typewriter, a stupid, thoughtless, object, my pet, my familiar, give me a machine, a box of levers and letters and obstinate steel and let me do all the thinking and breathing in here. i can’t think in here. she’s gone and feeling better about life and i’m feeling my energy drain away like the summer’s warmth. i’m wishing i were someone else, i can’t live with myself. i’m beginning to be a real expert on cooking macaroni and cheese. i’m looking tired all the time. i don’t care.