As I flip through photo albums in my parent’s living room I realize I can’t recognize anyone. As I play the piano, dusty in their den, every key sounds sharp or flat. As I entertain my demons in suburban trite I still hear my mother weeping in her room. So I phone my friends. They pick me and we drive around and believe we’re having fun. We’re coping. “In the darkness of mere being”. As we pass a child playing lonesome in park I collect myself because boys don’t cry. This place is static. We’re all lost in oblivion. We’re all damned to the same place. Our family photos will look like our parent’s family photos and their parent’s – a folio of forced smiles. I’m ashamed of myself. These pictures, my life, such are the stimuli of my despairing.