and in his bed he lies, legs broken scattered like pasta bent like a bicycle frame, knees touching hand folded over hand like a raccoon disaffectionate
he took his dreamgirl to the senior prom because he asked she smelled felt acted tasted exactly like he'd imagined down to the last boring letter
he got the promotion at his very first job because he took three-minute showers wore suits and took lunch at his desk every day for six years (except terrible silence Sundays) only sounds are kettle whistles and washing machines
he bought the dream house in Wisconsin finished the book he was writing went back to school and completed his doctorate meeting his expectations with no chance of failure not even a little
every October he stares at fallen leaves with gloom-glaze in his eye and wonders how the hell he's supposed to define a tree anymore
"You don't have to run," he told himself once too many times "You should commit to your suffering, be uncomfortable and learn something"
he stares at his ceiling cracks bumps holes imperfections tries to manipulate them into shapes in his mind tries to turn every pattern he sees into a frown
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