fruits rot
on the table, yet i seem not to notice them, as if on purpose. my nose no
longer distinguishes the stench from the fragrance, just as my tongue can't discern
sweet from bitter. a mountain of unwashed dishes over the sink looks like a
part of the decor. it's a kind of descent, like a slowly fading candle.
sometime at night, when the sadness passes, i'll clean it all up, but for now,
i prefer not to open my eyes.
