Beneath the rage, fear
Beneath the fear, sadness
Beneath the sadness, love

Each sleepless night between the hours of 2 and 5 you traverse a vast region where your failings are laid bare under the moon’s implacable light.

The inbred entitlement of the once-attractive.

Mon
Stepped outside. Seemed gross. Went back inside.
Tue
Same.
Thurs
—
Next week sometime
Birds, wind. Weeping.

The seventies were shit; the eighties sucked ass; he barely remembered the nineties; and everything after 2000 was lost in a haze of self-loathing.
Things were looking up.

As we threw out the remains of the litter box we realized this was the last vestige of his physical presence—a fittingly catlike form of scattering ashes—and cried like babies.

Messages on walls or mirrors, invariably perceived as more urgent than those typed on a computer.

I have a particularly ugly shirt reserved for days when I feel particularly ugly.

She sat up suddenly and, looking past him, cried I have so much packing to do. So much packing! He stroked her forehead until she fell back to sleep. No more packing, my love. No more packing.