What is there to do in a glass box with nothing to even hang yourself from? If the absence of something doesn't already speak volumes to him, tell him I'm already feeling melancholy, tell him I'm already doing something sad, then nothing will.
I dream of churches instead of boxes but they’re always on top of a hill, where the effort always far outweighs the will. I fall asleep and look out from the pew at my audience of no one. There I am, praying anxiously. “I want release, please I just want this to end! Come on you fucking cunt, for once in my miserable life just do something for me!” I demand.
And then applause.