Lost men


He laid in bed, having given in to insomnia hours ago, eyes fixed on the informercial for ‘best sleep ever.’ Not even a physical product or salve, but the mere suggestion of a marketing promise.

There was nothing left to do, at the moment. But in a few hours, he’d have to make a decision.

The clock spoke up 44 minutes later, Chopin’s Nocturne #2 bleeding through the dust-laden pock-mark decibel diffusing plastic marsh right next to his head, blaring oboe, wincing, unnerving. He hobbles from the wedged in bed to his camper-chic hand-crank shower.

Chopin would not relent. The piano seeped into his sadness, crawled around and curled up there, for a rest. Sadness wanted a rest.

Joy Sprinkles Ad Nausea


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