I wonder what will become of me. Plans seem useless:
there is no telling what kind of ball the pitcher will throw next. I can guess
that next up is a curve ball, because he's been throwing me fast ones and he's due for a change up' but only the man on the mound
and the man in the mask behind me know for certain.
I can see my dreams laid out before my eyes on red silk, crumbling like ash off the end of a cigarette,
like the coliseum,
the Holy Roman Empire,
like dust in the wind they fly, slipping through my outstretched fingertips out to the far
corners of space,
where they twinkle like stars, mocking me in my own head.
I see them bloom, grow, whither and die,
like a flower in fast forward, garishly bright on a television screen.
Drowned ants in a green coffee mug, they stare at me accusingly, whispering in the back of my skull, tiny, multi-legged ghosts nag at me,
constantly:
DO SOMETHING; BE SOMETHING; ANYTHING.