When is the world ever perfect?

You lie in bed an extra three, four hours just to catch up on sleep. Sleep that last night you were deprived, stolen in the night without metaphor, without a goodbye, without even a sweet, false caress. You wonder if these words mean anything, are worth anything, divulge anything worth saying, or hearing, or reading. You’re listening to Kendrick’s newest album again and wondering if your life is going to be any different from the last few days, and weeks, the months that have passed by folding into a year of hell. Hospitals, and pills, and locked doors. That is the worst of it.

Those nights staring out of those long windows on the 17th floor, seeing the sites, the city move without your presence. Why is life so selfish? Is there a day when life — civilization stopped because on presence wasn’t felt, wasn’t there? “I wonder,” you wonder. You begin typing again as you stomp your feet to the rhythm of the chorus “let me put the head in…”

There was a day, a week ago exactly when your 14 year old virgin daughter crawled into bed with you and held your hand as you slept. You started thinking back to when you were 14, the first boy you kissed, how by 16 you were no longer a virgin. Your daughter swears she wants to spend the rest of her life alone. For now she locks herself away from the world, both figuratively and literally, as you struggle to gain a foot-hold in it worth having.

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