Andreas Stoehr
You don’t want to die alone. But you’re not willing to do anything to avert that potentiality. You just run around in the mud like a sweating scaredy-cat who’s not sure, but thinks he might dreaming. Coward! Coward! Coward! Coward! Coward!
Pursued by madmen, you are. And they’re wielding household implements of destruction, ranging from the shiny new hedge clippers you see displayed on the left (bought for cheap, they were) to the rusty old wire cutters on the right (their origin, meanwhile, has been lost amongst this building’s many stories). They have a large repertoire of mechanical devices, all sort of rigged together into one compound device that’s intent on your personal demolition, you see? So run, now. Run and run and run, because you won’t get a second chance.
You sat and watched TV, and wasted the last chance you had. You sat there at the foot of your bed, a pair of wayward slippers tossed into the corner of that drab room, and your eyes drifted upward – upward – up to the ceiling, up to the – what were you looking at? You weren’t looking at the TV, we know that; we’ve analyzed the videotape and we know that you were not, in fact, looking at the TV. Those were lies, and we know this, because we’ve checked the surveillance footage. What was on the ceiling? Was it a clue about the future? Was it telling you something? We can stay here all day. But you sure as hell can’t.
We can play your every memory back to you, if you want. Is that what you want? I don’t think you want that. You have a lot of painful memories, and we can play those, too, if you’re not careful. Dammit, man, pay attention! This isn’t some game. You’re sitting in a circular room right now, a room without a single corner, and a man’s voice – this voice – is speaking to you. It’s demanding that you cooperate, or else we’re going to show you some things you’d thought you’d successfully forgotten. But you can’t forget, can you? Forgetting hurts almost as much as remembering. You’re a compulsive.
You’ve been asking us right along if this is a nightmare, or if it’s just real life. We’d give you the answer, but these types of questions are so dreadfully boring that we’re not sure it’s worth our time. Now listen carefully: I said listen carefully, I was about to tell you something! Then you stuck your finger in your ears and refused to cooperate. Noncooperation will get you nowhere. I think precisely 17 more hours in the “oven” should do the trick. Then back into the yard, back to the madmen, and back to “real life.”
Bonus: Sonnet-to-Haiku 29
Sometimes my life sucks.
But I remember your love,
And things are awesome.
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