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The television is on. An image of a man wearing a pink leotard reflects off the dirty windows as his decidedly British voice collides with the stained pine walls before disintegrating in this everlasting heat. The Grandfather clock stifles in the corner, bemoaning the swelter while the seconds pile up and become hours. The hours here were made to be counted down, to be dissected into minutes and eagerly crossed off as each draws to a close. There is no future here and present doesn’t become past quickly enough. This house is as empty as those whom inhabit it.

Another unpublished post.

When will this torment end.

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