It was raining hard again. He remembered the last time it was raining this hard, but decided not to delve into those memories. He always hated things like that - recollections, pictures, 'trips down memory lane'.. didn't know why though.
Well, actually he did. Because he just didn't like memories. Even at his age, he had come to despise so much. He blamed television and the news in general for his disillusionment
"Just like every other cynic" he thought dully.
But not really.. he knew it was a lot more than that. He knew it was a lot deeper. Vaguely, he wondered if every other cynic knew the same.
The droplets came pelting down like a thousand tiny bullets, drenching the sombre gathering. It was an unusal turn up at the graveyard. The sleep of the dead was disturbed though not by the surprising number of black-adorned men and women, standing in the pouring rain with their umbrellas - braving the weather.. no, the distubance was more of a buzz. They were excited because another was joining, being put into the earth. A young one at that - just 24! Atleast he thought they were waiting for the dead one - for his friend, for his worst enemy, for the person he begrudgingly grew up with, for the person he thought he'd die with.
Under the heavy, cloudy sky - ignoring all those around him... all these people that came to say good-bye to their 'beloved' - he knelt by the grave. He was dimly aware of R reading out the eulogy but ignored it - gazing intently on the Dead One's face. Still. Peaceful. Peaceful? You could never tell with Him - the bastard was a scorpio. Looks usually were decieving with him. Yet there he lay in His black suit, not breathing. And he just kept staring at His face for a while - disconnected, flooded with emotion - anger, hatred, admiration, even a little envy.
"..and he was handsome - everyone called him that.. even the kids.."
"No you weren't, you ugly bastard. You were ugly. Even on the inside.. inside you were ugly like me." he said with a choked whisper, wondering if the Dead One could hear him.
"..a lively person that went around making freinds, making everyone happy.."
"Happy? you don't even know how much grief you have caused. You and I can't even begin to measure how many people we have made miserable over the course of your fuck-up of a life." leaning in closer, bringing his lips to the corpse's ears.
The rain came down even harder, and he was completely soaked - dripping wet - yet he didn't feel it. Didn't feel wet at all, didn't even feel those drops splashing rudely against him.
"..a great brother, a wonderful son, the perfect friend - always understanding, always supportive.."
"Thats rich.. supportive? Understanding? You selfish little shit - if only these people knew you like I did. But now they never will get to.. thank god for that! Thank him personally for me."
The women sobbed respectfully, the men shuffled their feet - everyone now hoping R would just finish so they could get the fucking hell out of the rain. Finally R did - and with a sigh, scooped up a handful of the freshly dug mud and tossed it onto the coffin. This is when he realised it was finally happening. Looking up at R for a second - registering the pained, broken look in the man's eyes he turned back to the grave.. the lid shut now, Dead One's face completely shut from the world.
He remained at the graveside as more and more people tossed their handful of dirt onto the filling-up grave - some stepping right through him as they shuffled to stand by the graveside - others just flinging the rich earth right through him.. his eyes fixed on the spot where His face was moments ago. And thus He was buried, the darkness in the grave increasing with each handful, in an increasingly big mound of dirt and sand and rubbish.. a befitting destiny for you, he thought. And the rest of us.
Long after everyone else had left he just sat there alone, staring at the gravestone. Rising, he dusted himself off, mumbling something about people's audacity to shovel dirt right through him - fuck, didn't they think they'd fuck-up my suit? Assholes.
Straightening, he spit loudly onto the fresh grave - there.. paid you my last respects, you fuck. He looked up at the sky wiping his chin, and was pretty sure in all 24 years of his life he had never seen a sky so dark. Shaking his head, he wandered aimlessly out of the graveyard leaving Himself buried alone - the darkness increasing with each step he took just like my grave did.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Sunday, March 05, 2006
i miss you when you're here
Silence.
It's that time of day when the electric lamps across the streets and in the many segragated houses are yet to light up - but the sky has already dimmed. She stands by the window, smoking and staring quietly.
He sits at a small dining table in the center of the room... watching her watch nothing.
"Why do you come here?" he asks her.
"I miss you when I'm gone." her first words.
"I miss you when you're here." is his reply.
"And yet you ask me to come back?"
He rises slowly, making his way over to the window - by her side - and looks out to the dark, cold city. Slowly, he turns to face her, something tugging at his heart, and says quietly "How could I not?" He reaches for her shoulder - pauses as if conflicted - withdraws his hand - then reaches out again letting his fingers pass through her ephemeral body which shimmers in the wake of this slight gesture.
"Why do you do that? You know we can't touch.."
"Yes, I do.. but I don't - can't - believe it.. still.." comes the anguished reponse.
She turns from the window, facing him finally, looking into his eyes and says "Im sorry, I don't mean for this to hurt you. I..." and as the moonlight spills into the room, her whispered words dry up. In the growing silence she walks through the wall into the gloom as he watches her from the window.
Watches her fading away - like the smoke from the cigarette - to invisibility.
It's that time of day when the electric lamps across the streets and in the many segragated houses are yet to light up - but the sky has already dimmed. She stands by the window, smoking and staring quietly.
He sits at a small dining table in the center of the room... watching her watch nothing.
"Why do you come here?" he asks her.
"I miss you when I'm gone." her first words.
"I miss you when you're here." is his reply.
"And yet you ask me to come back?"
He rises slowly, making his way over to the window - by her side - and looks out to the dark, cold city. Slowly, he turns to face her, something tugging at his heart, and says quietly "How could I not?" He reaches for her shoulder - pauses as if conflicted - withdraws his hand - then reaches out again letting his fingers pass through her ephemeral body which shimmers in the wake of this slight gesture.
"Why do you do that? You know we can't touch.."
"Yes, I do.. but I don't - can't - believe it.. still.." comes the anguished reponse.
She turns from the window, facing him finally, looking into his eyes and says "Im sorry, I don't mean for this to hurt you. I..." and as the moonlight spills into the room, her whispered words dry up. In the growing silence she walks through the wall into the gloom as he watches her from the window.
Watches her fading away - like the smoke from the cigarette - to invisibility.
Monday, February 06, 2006
on life and the darkness within
"Melancholy. As any Elizabethan could tell you if they all weren't dead, melancholy is a far richer and more complex ailment than simple depression. There is a generous amplitude of possibility, chances for productive behavior, even what may be identified as a sense of humor. . . . Humor in these conditions leans toward the anti-transcendent -- like jail humor and military and rodeo humor, it finds high amusement in failure and loss, and it celebrates survival one day, one disaster, to the next."
"What happened?" "Why are you always depressed?" "Did she say something?" "Is everything okay?" "Oh come on - don't be sad, it was just a game" "Having a bad day?" "Is he being an asshole again?"
Right - first, let's get our terms straight. For simplicity's sake, we can order the blues into three general categories of increasing severity:
(1) "sadness," which is the short-term grief one feels after a loss,
(2) "melancholy," which is a long-term state of being characterized by pensive reflection, sometimes accompanied by wistfulness, sadness and even gloom, and
(3) "depression," which is a disorder that strips all pleasure and initiative from one's mind, replacing it with a monochromatic anhedonic stasis.
Sadness usually has a specific cause. Sadness is temporary, "fixed" by the passage of time. Sometimes you can fix sadness by replacing what was lost.
Another tidbit - the funniest people I know are invariably the most melancholic people I know. Something about blending the sunny light with the gathering dark produces that skewed take on life we call "humor." Happy people and depressed people are rarely funny people.
At root, a melancholic temperament seems the logical next step after one's youthful optimism is jaded by the cares, responsibilities and hard-learned lessons of adulthood. One can face one's losses, and one's mortality, with happy denial, with melancholic serenity or with depressed paralysis.
So to end this missive... if I were melancholic, chances are it my melancholy would be with me for much of my life - and it wouldn't be due to any external cause like an argument, or an election result. If I were melancholic, the outcome of a conversation or the result of a cricket match wouldn't do much to cheer me up, or let me down. If I were melancholic, I'd be living a life without illusions (or delusions) that get inflated when "a" happens, or deflated when "b" does.
IF I were melancholic, that is...
Right - first, let's get our terms straight. For simplicity's sake, we can order the blues into three general categories of increasing severity:
(1) "sadness," which is the short-term grief one feels after a loss,
(2) "melancholy," which is a long-term state of being characterized by pensive reflection, sometimes accompanied by wistfulness, sadness and even gloom, and
(3) "depression," which is a disorder that strips all pleasure and initiative from one's mind, replacing it with a monochromatic anhedonic stasis.
Sadness usually has a specific cause. Sadness is temporary, "fixed" by the passage of time. Sometimes you can fix sadness by replacing what was lost.
Depression pretty much has a specific cause as well -- something in the brain chemistry gets fuckered in a seriously wrong way. Depression can be fixed through medication, may be fixable by the passage of time, and (according to therapists) can be fixed by therapy.
Melancholy does not have a specific cause. It also cannot be fixed. Even if it could be fixed, if you are melancholic, chances are you wouldn't want it fixed.
If you're melancholic, you don't understand the need to "Have a Nice Day!" You simply don't smile on command. You're never giddy. You're not a fucking cheerleader for anything. You value introspection over sensation. You flatter yourself that you see the world with a clear-eyed, unstinting, shit-and-sunshine vision. Although you think of yourself as pretty balanced, seeing both the good and the bad, the "shiny happy people" think you're just fucking gloomy and listen to Linkin Park while staring at a razorblade (The depressed people might think of you as a crazy optimist, but they're usually too lost in their own problems to notice you or anyone else.)
When you're melancholic, people ask you "what's wrong?" and try to cheer you up, not realizing that nothing's wrong, that's just the way you are. You're allergic to cheer for cheer's sake. When you're melancholic, your lack of unbridled enthusiasm will be interpreted as a bad attitude. When you're melancholic, people will assume you're depressed, ignoring the fact that you manage to experience a wide range of emotions, you manage to see the humor in life, and you manage to stay productive, all while being followed about by your own personal black rain cloud. That's quite a fucking feat, let me tell you.Another tidbit - the funniest people I know are invariably the most melancholic people I know. Something about blending the sunny light with the gathering dark produces that skewed take on life we call "humor." Happy people and depressed people are rarely funny people.
At root, a melancholic temperament seems the logical next step after one's youthful optimism is jaded by the cares, responsibilities and hard-learned lessons of adulthood. One can face one's losses, and one's mortality, with happy denial, with melancholic serenity or with depressed paralysis.
So to end this missive... if I were melancholic, chances are it my melancholy would be with me for much of my life - and it wouldn't be due to any external cause like an argument, or an election result. If I were melancholic, the outcome of a conversation or the result of a cricket match wouldn't do much to cheer me up, or let me down. If I were melancholic, I'd be living a life without illusions (or delusions) that get inflated when "a" happens, or deflated when "b" does.
IF I were melancholic, that is...
Sunday, December 25, 2005
so to speak
Silent Bob: Chasing Amy.
(Shocked silence, more for the audience than anyone else)
Holden: What? What did you say?
Bob: You're chasing Amy.
Jay: Why do you so shocked for, man? Fat bastard does this all the time. Think just because never says anything, it'll have some huge impact when he does open his fucking mouth...
Bob: Jesus Christ, why don't you just shut the fuck up. You're yap, yap, yapping all the time. Give me a fucking headache. (to Holden) I went through something like what you're talking about, a couple years ago, this chick named Amy.
Jay: When?
Bob: A couple years ago?
Jay: What, you live in Canada or something? Why don't I know about this?
Bob: Bitch, what you don't know about me I could just about squeeze in the Grand fucking Canyon. Did you know I always wanted to be a dancer in Vegas? (does a gesture with his hands, a reference to a move by the exotic dancers in "Showgirls") Betcha ya didn't even know that shit, did ya?
Jay: So tell your fucking story so we can get outta here and smoke this.
Bob (to Holden): So, there's me and Amy. And we're all inseparable, right? Big time in love. Then four months down the road, the idiot gear kicks in, and I ask about the ex-boyfriend. Which, as we all know, is a really dumb move. But you know how you don't wanna know, but just have to know--stupid guy bullshit. So, anyway, she starts telling me about him. How they fell in love, how they went out for a couple of yeas, how they lived together, her mother likes me better, blah blah blah blah blah. And I'm okay. Then she drops the bomb. And the bomb is this: it seems that a couple of times while they were going out, he brought some people to bed with him, "menage a troi," I believe it's called. And this just blows my mind, right? I mean, I am not used to this sorta thing; I was raised Catholic, for Gods sake.
Jay: Saint shithead.
Bob (to Jay): Do something. (to Holden) So I'm totally weirded out by this, right? So I start blasting her. I mean, I don't know how to deal with what I'm feeling, so I figure the best way is to call her 'slut,' tell her she was used. I'm out for blood, I really want to hurt this girl. I'm like, "What the fuck is your problem," right? And she's just trying to calmly tell me it was that time, it was that place, and she doesn't feel like she should apologize because she doesn't feel that she's done anything wrong. And I say, "Oh, really?" That's when I look her straight in the eye, tell her it's over. I walk.
Jay: Fucking-A.
Bob: No, idiot, it was a mistake. I wasn't disgusted with her, I was afraid. In that moment, I felt small, like I lacked experience, like I'd never be enough for her or something like that, you know what I'm saying? But what I did not get: she didn't care. She wasn't looking for that guy any more. She was looking for me, for the Bob. But by the time I figured this all out, it was too late. She had moved on. And all I had to show for it was some foolish pride which gave way to regret. She was the girl. I know that now. But (lights a cigarette) I pushed her away. (pause) So I spend every day since then chasing Amy. (pause) So to speak.
(Shocked silence, more for the audience than anyone else)
Holden: What? What did you say?
Bob: You're chasing Amy.
Jay: Why do you so shocked for, man? Fat bastard does this all the time. Think just because never says anything, it'll have some huge impact when he does open his fucking mouth...
Bob: Jesus Christ, why don't you just shut the fuck up. You're yap, yap, yapping all the time. Give me a fucking headache. (to Holden) I went through something like what you're talking about, a couple years ago, this chick named Amy.
Jay: When?
Bob: A couple years ago?
Jay: What, you live in Canada or something? Why don't I know about this?
Bob: Bitch, what you don't know about me I could just about squeeze in the Grand fucking Canyon. Did you know I always wanted to be a dancer in Vegas? (does a gesture with his hands, a reference to a move by the exotic dancers in "Showgirls") Betcha ya didn't even know that shit, did ya?
Jay: So tell your fucking story so we can get outta here and smoke this.
Bob (to Holden): So, there's me and Amy. And we're all inseparable, right? Big time in love. Then four months down the road, the idiot gear kicks in, and I ask about the ex-boyfriend. Which, as we all know, is a really dumb move. But you know how you don't wanna know, but just have to know--stupid guy bullshit. So, anyway, she starts telling me about him. How they fell in love, how they went out for a couple of yeas, how they lived together, her mother likes me better, blah blah blah blah blah. And I'm okay. Then she drops the bomb. And the bomb is this: it seems that a couple of times while they were going out, he brought some people to bed with him, "menage a troi," I believe it's called. And this just blows my mind, right? I mean, I am not used to this sorta thing; I was raised Catholic, for Gods sake.
Jay: Saint shithead.
Bob (to Jay): Do something. (to Holden) So I'm totally weirded out by this, right? So I start blasting her. I mean, I don't know how to deal with what I'm feeling, so I figure the best way is to call her 'slut,' tell her she was used. I'm out for blood, I really want to hurt this girl. I'm like, "What the fuck is your problem," right? And she's just trying to calmly tell me it was that time, it was that place, and she doesn't feel like she should apologize because she doesn't feel that she's done anything wrong. And I say, "Oh, really?" That's when I look her straight in the eye, tell her it's over. I walk.
Jay: Fucking-A.
Bob: No, idiot, it was a mistake. I wasn't disgusted with her, I was afraid. In that moment, I felt small, like I lacked experience, like I'd never be enough for her or something like that, you know what I'm saying? But what I did not get: she didn't care. She wasn't looking for that guy any more. She was looking for me, for the Bob. But by the time I figured this all out, it was too late. She had moved on. And all I had to show for it was some foolish pride which gave way to regret. She was the girl. I know that now. But (lights a cigarette) I pushed her away. (pause) So I spend every day since then chasing Amy. (pause) So to speak.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
misanthrope
I have a love/hate relationship with humanity.
I love people for all that they can be and I hate them for all that they are.
In this I’m not the first and certainly not the last, but I am the most current.
Here endeth the session.
.
I love people for all that they can be and I hate them for all that they are.
In this I’m not the first and certainly not the last, but I am the most current.
Here endeth the session.
.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
a thought
"The problem with the world today is stupidity. I'm not saying there should be a capital punishment for stupidity, but why don't we just take the safety labels off of everything and let the problem solve itself?"
Monday, October 24, 2005
a small price to pay
Thirst - that was all I can remember feeling. It's been two days. I think. The closest village is a day away. I think.
The scorching desert sun shines mercilessly - and my crazed wanderings through this sandy, arid wasteland bring me to a dark-skinned bedouin and his camel. The hot blowing sand prickling at my face like a thousand tiny bullets, I point towards the camel.
My new bedoiun friend (for you make friends quickly in the middle of the desert) smiles a toothless smile, and raises up two fingers.
The deal thus sealed without contracts, or even words - I turn away from his gaping grin, and look to the camel again. Stretching out my hand towards it's owner, I clench it into a fist and hold out two fingers to him.
"It'll be over soon", I promise myself. I hear the scrape of metal, as he unsheates the blade...
The scorching desert sun shines mercilessly - and my crazed wanderings through this sandy, arid wasteland bring me to a dark-skinned bedouin and his camel. The hot blowing sand prickling at my face like a thousand tiny bullets, I point towards the camel.
My new bedoiun friend (for you make friends quickly in the middle of the desert) smiles a toothless smile, and raises up two fingers.
The deal thus sealed without contracts, or even words - I turn away from his gaping grin, and look to the camel again. Stretching out my hand towards it's owner, I clench it into a fist and hold out two fingers to him.
"It'll be over soon", I promise myself. I hear the scrape of metal, as he unsheates the blade...
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
whoever said anybody has a right to give up?
Indifference is the strongest force in the universe. It makes everything it touches meaningless. Love and hate don't stand a chance against it.
Telling themselves this they stumbled onwards, blind to one another yet each depending on the other - for their hate, for their ugliness, for their deaths...
...for their indifference.
The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference.
The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference.
The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference.
And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference.
The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference.
The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference.
And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference.
Telling themselves this they stumbled onwards, blind to one another yet each depending on the other - for their hate, for their ugliness, for their deaths...
...for their indifference.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
conversations
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
«I slaps . s u p e r u g l y . with a large smelly tuna fish»
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
ahahahaha..sorry....was trying to figue out what that was
. s u p e r u g l y . says:
well done.
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
thats funny...hahaa
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
«I offers a ¬5¬milk chocolate bar¬¬ to ¬4. s u p e r u g l y .»
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
«I grabs ¬39. s u p e r u g l y .¬ gets real close and plants a ¬38DEEP, WET, passionate kiss (K)(K)(K). ¬39¬WOW!!!!!¬ that was great! (L)»
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
hahahahahahah
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
thats funny..
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
thats all they have..
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
¬Mua¬5ha¬4ha¬5ha¬4ha¬5!
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
this is soooo cool..
. s u p e r u g l y . says:
its even cooler for me
. s u p e r u g l y . says:
because i have disabled smileys, and all I see is barely decipherable bullshit.
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
really?
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
its jus words....
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
that sucks..
. s u p e r u g l y . says:
yes. anticlimatic, isn't it?
«I slaps . s u p e r u g l y . with a large smelly tuna fish»
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
ahahahaha..sorry....was trying to figue out what that was
. s u p e r u g l y . says:
well done.
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
thats funny...hahaa
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
«I offers a ¬5¬milk chocolate bar¬¬ to ¬4. s u p e r u g l y .»
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
«I grabs ¬39. s u p e r u g l y .¬ gets real close and plants a ¬38DEEP, WET, passionate kiss (K)(K)(K). ¬39¬WOW!!!!!¬ that was great! (L)»
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
hahahahahahah
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
thats funny..
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
thats all they have..
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
¬Mua¬5ha¬4ha¬5ha¬4ha¬5!
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
this is soooo cool..
. s u p e r u g l y . says:
its even cooler for me
. s u p e r u g l y . says:
because i have disabled smileys, and all I see is barely decipherable bullshit.
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
really?
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
its jus words....
~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
that sucks..
. s u p e r u g l y . says:
yes. anticlimatic, isn't it?
Friday, June 24, 2005
monster in the closet
He always knew there was a monster in the closet.
At nights with the room lights out mommy would kiss him on the cheek and tuck him in, he would wrap the blanket around himself tighter. He would watch her walk out the door, an onimous silhouette in the light of the hallway. As she shut the door behind her, with each second of diminishing light his dread grew. Because he knew the terrible truth.
And his eyes would shift to the other bare wooden door. Peering at it with fearful eyes, he would wait for the monster to break free. Nobody believed him. He tried telling daddy, but daddy laughed. He hated being laughed at. He tried telling mommy, but mommy consoled and hugged and kissed him. But noone believed him.
Yet he knew.
And every night, he watched that bare wooden door, dreading what coiled within. Terrified, he kept his constant vigil till the call sounded for the morning prayer. The mouazzin calling out to the faithful. There, pressing his little hands together tight he would pray feverishly to God that monster never get him. And then, trembling, he would drift off into an uneasy sleep.
In morning mommy would wake him for school. And his eyes would dart nervously to the closet door that remaind shut. His faith reaffirmed in God, he would rise.. keeping his distance from that door. Because he knew.
He grew up, he went to college, he moved out. Years later he came back. Daddy had left them. Cancer they said. But he knew. Walking to his room, he approached the door that tormented his nights. With trembling hands he pulled that door open...
And there it was. The monster he dreaded. The monster he had prayed so vehemently to be protected against. The monster he tried to purge from his life. The monster that had already consumed his life.
The closet.. was full of Emptyness.
At nights with the room lights out mommy would kiss him on the cheek and tuck him in, he would wrap the blanket around himself tighter. He would watch her walk out the door, an onimous silhouette in the light of the hallway. As she shut the door behind her, with each second of diminishing light his dread grew. Because he knew the terrible truth.
And his eyes would shift to the other bare wooden door. Peering at it with fearful eyes, he would wait for the monster to break free. Nobody believed him. He tried telling daddy, but daddy laughed. He hated being laughed at. He tried telling mommy, but mommy consoled and hugged and kissed him. But noone believed him.
Yet he knew.
And every night, he watched that bare wooden door, dreading what coiled within. Terrified, he kept his constant vigil till the call sounded for the morning prayer. The mouazzin calling out to the faithful. There, pressing his little hands together tight he would pray feverishly to God that monster never get him. And then, trembling, he would drift off into an uneasy sleep.
In morning mommy would wake him for school. And his eyes would dart nervously to the closet door that remaind shut. His faith reaffirmed in God, he would rise.. keeping his distance from that door. Because he knew.
He grew up, he went to college, he moved out. Years later he came back. Daddy had left them. Cancer they said. But he knew. Walking to his room, he approached the door that tormented his nights. With trembling hands he pulled that door open...
And there it was. The monster he dreaded. The monster he had prayed so vehemently to be protected against. The monster he tried to purge from his life. The monster that had already consumed his life.
The closet.. was full of Emptyness.
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