Frustration
It's Halloween, and the keys are missing. They've mysteriously disappeared, much like the pencils. Where could they be? There's a suspicion that the roommate took them; things often seem to work out like that, especially in those frantic moments before leaving. Where are the keys? The walls seem to shrink; the apartment is foreboding when leaving implies having no way of getting back in. A prison of obligation separates the costume from the party. Speaking of which, will they like it? The costume will get called, everyone knows the stories. Everyone. But then, it doesn't matter. Nobody really cares, anyway. Which is the point. Other than the fact that the keys are missing, which is distressing. Between the absence of the keys and the frantic rattle of the keyboard, the frustration is building. It's not as if either is necessary, they both serve as excuses to serve a certain ego, none of which matters, none of which will be remembered, least of all by their sources.
The work is on the table. It could have been done half an hour ago, but instead of productivity, instead fretting over the keys, the keys which had disappeared. Mysteriously, like the wind in Chicago when you expect a high of 70. There's plenty to do, but the suspicion grows every second. Where are they? Where is whatever? Where is the lightbulb? The lightbulb was found yesterday though. The stomach grumbles, like a distant implosion. It seems further, except the acid is building. Eating alone is no fun, but nobody can come in, because there's no way out. It's a double bind. Or a single one, except it's all getting blurred and confusing. There was obviously something more important to do, but that lost itself. Where are the keys? Where are they? They seem like the answer, but they're not. They're just dead pieces of metal. That's all they are; they burn themselves into the paranoia. They manifest in every stray thought. Where the fuck are they? Seriously, where?
Everything folds into another grumble in the stomach. The hunger is almost unbearable. The kitchen beckons, but so do the keys. Were they taken, or did they just disappear? None of this helps at all. Everything implodes, and releases itself. The light at the end of the tunnel is dinner. But the keys are still nowhere to be found.
It's Halloween, and the keys are missing. They've mysteriously disappeared, much like the pencils. Where could they be? There's a suspicion that the roommate took them; things often seem to work out like that, especially in those frantic moments before leaving. Where are the keys? The walls seem to shrink; the apartment is foreboding when leaving implies having no way of getting back in. A prison of obligation separates the costume from the party. Speaking of which, will they like it? The costume will get called, everyone knows the stories. Everyone. But then, it doesn't matter. Nobody really cares, anyway. Which is the point. Other than the fact that the keys are missing, which is distressing. Between the absence of the keys and the frantic rattle of the keyboard, the frustration is building. It's not as if either is necessary, they both serve as excuses to serve a certain ego, none of which matters, none of which will be remembered, least of all by their sources.
The work is on the table. It could have been done half an hour ago, but instead of productivity, instead fretting over the keys, the keys which had disappeared. Mysteriously, like the wind in Chicago when you expect a high of 70. There's plenty to do, but the suspicion grows every second. Where are they? Where is whatever? Where is the lightbulb? The lightbulb was found yesterday though. The stomach grumbles, like a distant implosion. It seems further, except the acid is building. Eating alone is no fun, but nobody can come in, because there's no way out. It's a double bind. Or a single one, except it's all getting blurred and confusing. There was obviously something more important to do, but that lost itself. Where are the keys? Where are they? They seem like the answer, but they're not. They're just dead pieces of metal. That's all they are; they burn themselves into the paranoia. They manifest in every stray thought. Where the fuck are they? Seriously, where?
Everything folds into another grumble in the stomach. The hunger is almost unbearable. The kitchen beckons, but so do the keys. Were they taken, or did they just disappear? None of this helps at all. Everything implodes, and releases itself. The light at the end of the tunnel is dinner. But the keys are still nowhere to be found.
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