In a flash of realization, I look up.
I am ruminating,
Alone, in this corner,
In this darkened room with
Blacker thoughts
Than the hearts of those squawking people-birds once tweeting in a
Black box.
There was once a screen, which tentatively lit up this
Ever
Darker
Corner,
Whom tenderly tickled my fancies as I drifted away from the sounds
Of trickling rain.
The screen could procure for me,
A fugue, a daze,
No, a dream,
From which there was no desire to wake,
From which time itself could be lulled,
If only by the permanence of the
Tempered
absolution of drifting
On silly syllables concatenated with concerned consonants
Muttering immemorable inconsistencies befitting of me.
When I grew duller, I would wait for more.
At my request, the screen would present to me,
My messages,
My passions,
My progeny,
Flickering into a mechanical half-life,
But on this night, interrupted by static.
They weren't feeling alone,
Were they?
I whispered in reassurance to the voices,
"You are my last protection against the darkness",
Before the static snapping of something broken
In consequence stalled our connection.
Without the chatter, there was only the the void
Of a single black box in this corner.
I am dissociated,
And, in this distanced
Detachment,
I can now wonder if any of it was real.
Static flickered across the window.
Rain pitter-pattered, and the
Rumbling pulse of thunder
Rolled my ribcage to remind me
There was a world
Past this screen.
