Let’s begin with things: a chair, maybe; a table; a computer sitting
on the floor waiting for someone to come along and lift
it up and push the right buttons, anything to make it useful again.
After we’ve catalogued everything, we’ll sift through, looking
for something with meaning. Maybe there’ll be a note,
an explanation. We’ll grow tired and sloppy. We’ll miss
things. The only certainty in the room is the blood pooled
in the carpet, the smell of determination. Now, let’s go
home to our beds and dream of dead men, of desperation,
of suicide.
This article appears in December 2011.
