I’m sitting with my mouth a little open, my head tilted from the weight of summer. I’m sitting in the shadow of someone’s love, I’m sitting in this room, always this room, always some room. I never leave. I am never let out. I put a pillow on the chair so it’s more comfortable. I sit in the shadow of a better life, this blackness, where there is only rage and pity. A stagnancy that kills you slowly. Every good thing I could be is always walking in front of me, and I walk and walk, and I’m only ever in it’s shadow. I told someone I was going to die one of two ways: I’m going to disappear into my mind, and you’ll wave your hand in front of me, and I won’t answer. Or I’ll jump somewhere, and during the fall, I’ll love the wind and the world, until the moment it all goes black. I don’t know if she understood. So I sit. In the shadow of all good things, I sit. I put a pillow on the chair. I cry.