Stupor

Apathy reigns surpreme in the little apartment at the top of the hill. A moving body carrying a black hole gathers more and more mass, absorbing energy from the matter nearby, ever swirling, ever building, a steel figure of indefinite shape and emotionless muscle. Winter lies dead outside, the streets a graveyard of leaves, the sky an indiscernible color for a few hours before the power goes out again and all is black. It begins again; it returns every year and you know this, but you are helpless at its hand.

I sat at the piano and attempted to remedy the lump in my throat, the pit in my stomach, but my fingers fell heavy at its keys and every misstep was a reminder of criticisms past. Nothing is holy, nothing is only yours. I long for a great big kitchen knife to run down the length of my belly to lead this black matter out, but I know it is to no avail: skin will always heal, if crookedly, and you will be no freer then than now.

There is no salvation in flight,
nor in resignation,
nor in blood.

This is the script you were handed.
This is the part you have to play.