Because there is a swell of pain inside me, and it is beginning to compromise the structural integrity of my emotional skeleton. Because hope feels like something that was discontinued due to safety concerns. Because I can't make love to the billboards but am compelled to try anyway. Because when I wake up I resent that I have to go on living. Because when I try to tell people how I feel, they say, "That reminds me of a very funny television commercial I just saw." Because everything i touch-the ottoman, the remote, the shoes, the coffee table, the collectible flatware, the books, the friendships, the interior of my car, the clothing, the records, my wife, the CDs (and the ****** plastic cases they come in), the old letters from friends I met at summer camp thirty years ago the pocketknife that belonged to my grandfather, the flowers I cut and put in water, the finger paintings the slow kid that lives next door gave to me, the house plants, the sunsets, the secrets I am afraid to share, the angry letters to my congressperson, the children I will never have, my marriage, my job, everything and every other thing-fades or crumbles into broken parts that I can never reassemble.

Why are you so sad? By James Porter, page 139.