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the uncertainty in the way objects, occurrences, particularly people, devolve exhausts me. expectation exhausts me. it seems as if I cannot predict anything, not even what I will become in, say, an hour, day, two days, a week? i am stuck to burden not only the absence of what I am, but the unpredictability of what I will become. who lives as I do knowing that to live, I must allow life itself to sock me in the face? to malnourish me? if those poor African children do not have food to eat, know that I am indeed poorer than they are, for I cannot even fathom why I must eat! I am frail, impoverished, my absence in things is so much more insightful than my presence, I must excuse myself from everything. I write, daily, poems, confessions, I am my own tribunal and my defense is the wrath of suffering, I cease myself from every distraction, person, belonging, in the hopes that, perhaps, just maybe, the existential cow of life might recognize the sound of my tired voice churning this void of darkness into a placenta of black tar that covers me from head to toe, and yet, each time, I merely churn dry tears for I am emotionless, I am sick, I cannot even feel the uncertainty that looms ahead: in all things, I only see their dispossession of me.