What if I’m fucked?

And there is no hope, no train, no cure, no tomorrow, no fear, no milk, no talent, no time? Just failure, loneliness, cock and disapproval, and this is what it sounds like: genetic time-bomb, neurons out of juice, out of luck, out of money and pissing in the wind or if I’m just like my father (2 bold), or what if they laugh or if you swallow or if humanity’s hungers are so vast it must eat itself or that’s not his finger… and the inbox won’t refresh itself and she should have called and I don’t get it, and no wonder he left and it wasn’t insured and it will end in tears and what if it’s no good and this is what it sounds like to crash without burning, fail without a whimper, forget to fill out your timesheet, renew your passport, pay the fine or back up the computer. And what of the years wasted loading dishwashers, perfecting gumbo, on your knees or Googling tabs? Picture her peering through curtains, around neurotics, drunks and bores, on business, in the shower, with the dog, opening drawers, in traffic and in solitary love. See it gone, over, empty, as never was—you’ll never go home, and God, they can’t pass, they can’t but what if there is such a thing as too old, too ugly, too smart, too late, too much, and I am it and guilt has no exit, no end, no death and it will come, yes it will come, like monsters of the deep and that was my chance and there are no second chances and that was my second chance and what if it’s a lump or we get caught and he has a gun or a bomb or if he yells, walks out, says no, gets old, and I will never see enough nor live so long, never time enough for this joke lifeline—the hands they don’t lie, they know where they’ve been and you know who you are and it is a sad tit there in its cubicle, blaming the day job, the kids, that thing that happened and why can’t you just say it and this is what is sounds like, if a new Powerbook could change my life, and I could go back and save her? And what if my nose needs blowing, or my breath smells, or my eyes are closed, and the emails stop and I stand revealed at last—it wasn’t me, I wasn’t around, and beauty isn’t on the inside and I’ll never sleep and it will never start and the piano can go fuck itself and it’s back and my boss is a vampire and I read the spoiler and Jesus blows and it’s a mugs game?

Articulate or perish.