depression is like finding a phillip morris pack of cigs left behind the drywall in an old burb splitlevel tract house now being renovated.
you bust down a wall to make room for a new space only to find old ways, cute and smarmily nostalgic.
billboards of then, marlboro men.
it's no michelangelo.
the not-too-far-back past is a looseleaf ghost binding you in three rings, one of which won't snap shut all the way, letting you be here and there, drinking your dumb boring blood like a can of tab soda from the cafeteria vending machine
replacing your numbered collarbone with a googol of transfinite plateaus.