A Case of Mirrorspectritis

by The Khulszarimm Inquiry

Feelings wide open and constricting, a medley of morose melancholy. A couch, comfortable, clawed and tattered, the last refuge of a hopeless animal. Midnight musings, a mixture of introspection and staring into pallid photographs of a time that never should have been. Time is an unjust jailer. We pay our dues, and we pay more. We whine, whimper, sob, and scream to the heavens, we demand details for why we have been awarded hell for our sufferings. If we had done some wrongs, surely our only crime was a lack of future foresight. We’d have made the right choice if we had been given all the pieces. Peace is something we find faith for no longer, yet we long for it. Vintage volumes of tinny tunes, soft and reverberating, wrap us up like a sonic blanket. Blank are our plans for salvaging some semblance of self-satisfaction. Our existence is pain, and pain multiplied would be the cost for altering it. Orange streetlamps beyond hazy glass, scratchy and soiled. Hope and hopelessness made manifest in simultaneous simulations of an empty, buzzing bliss. Sidewalk smokes, moonlight meandering. The emptiness of an elder era filled to every edge with inverted expectations. Looking back and looking inward unjustly assault our corrugated metal mentalities. Choking, smoking insights. Wine wet dirt and senseless, sensual scribbling. We will unwillingly write our well-deserved ending, rendering an ultimate formula to its final failings.

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