Carl
The glass is cool against my palm and fingers, splayed out, as I look at a line segment crossing through a great, divided world that stretches and expands far beyond redacted, South Pasadena, California, United States, Earth (third planet from our sun), Sol System, Milky Way Galaxy, in the only universe I’ve ever known. The great blankness, Space, the final frontier, it stretches so incomprehensibly long. If there was ever a true long and winding road, it would be Space. The area around us is so small, so insignificant compared to everything else. Even the Earth, with its many unexplored nooks, its ability to sustain life, its great wonders and horrific travesties, is merely a minuscule fraction, a single pixel in a tapestry that stretches for galaxies and galaxies. That is human comprehension of incomprehensibility, that is perspective.
Yet this one dark room is simultaneously proportionally nonexistent and my personal universe of which I can never hope to leave. In this room, there is a trapped child, yearning for freedom but not able to give himself such a generous gift. Only good boys get to be good boys, after all. Only those who were predetermined can determine their own path, to pretend to disprove Einstein with their free will that is free to collapse in precisely 32 days, 13 hours, 5 minutes, and 19 seconds.
I want to stop writing now, aware of the painful questions now that I have reawaken them to nag at my brain about whether I write this now, or if my keystrokes were logged some incomprehensible amount of time earlier. I should sleep, I really should, but I keep writing? Or do I!
Yes, I do keep writing because it is worth giving your prior impulses a nice old “go fuck yourself” when you become aware of how much a slave to them you are. Now my mind is unable to move from the supreme hope that I can become more than ingrained impulses racing against a self destruct button set by previously acknowledged impulses. One wrong tick in this minefield and I go boom. Now I will put my writing away. For now. Such a mighty beast should not lie in chains for eternities.

Sherlock
She dances a beat a breath, faster, slower, tauntingly. She knows you can imagine her. She knows you will never reach her. She taunts you. You feel something rising as you stare on, and on, as she twirls and gyrates, you know the show she’s putting on. It’s a dance for no one and everyone and just her, because it’s about her and you can’t see her but you know her and you’ve met her and it’s just the movement. A twisting white and gold silhouette against a hypocritical background of depression. She taunts you.
She stops dancing. Your limited understanding strains and you can feel it pulling at the chained collar. You don’t know what will happen if it gets loose and you run at her and you reach her, and she disappears as your hypothetical situation had bled into reality without realizing. You can only -always- stare as she runs past the falling skyline that Atlas had to let down to laugh in your face. He laughs and she eludes you, she taunts you, she taunts you, she taunts you.
Less and less frequent fragments floating, fluttering fast, fleetingly suspended in a pale moonbeam. Saxophones blare lights flare jump at you you were caught out! Ganked in your own bush, by she. The elusive she. She taunts you and you don’t understand why except in brief moments of clarity. You bundle your cynicism around you and you cry and hope it’s enough for she to blow through. She doesn’t care. She taunts you.

Part Two
They put you up in such perfect imperfection, each time you’re mentioned you’re another funny valentine
They paint you up so easily, it’s her on the walls and him in the clouds
But when I knew you, you were never like that
You were rather stupid, I do remember that
You were so dense to what I was saying
Or perhaps you didn’t want to play games, but all I saw was you playing the fool far too convincingly
I used to not be able to insult you but your absence has given me power
And though it trembles, though that power is oft overcome by trepidation and shakes when I spot your ankles through the crowd
That power is mine alone
So I will insult you once more: we’re exactly the same but I know more
It’s not honesty it’s cruelty, it’s the knife that is dragged down, through your chest like they forced seppuku upon you, and the knifes inscription apologizes “Death was inevitable”
It’s not answering a better question it’s dodging the painful one, with malice and disdain palpable
It’s not moving on it’s failing to forget for long enough
It’s not kindness
It was never about kindness
It was about an idea, yes but not of you
It was an idea of an us: a companion to laugh and let laugh with
But I see now that life is not such a joke
No matter how much your proximity might suggest that it was so