March 15, 2000: This zit won’t go away
I sit alone on an island—no trees to shade, rivers to drink from or an ocean to gather fish. An island behind closed locked doors, a half burnt candle steals my air. Yet, here I sit believing a ship will one day come by—an ocean liner filled with great victory, reasons and places to celebrate. Then there’s silence—not a wind to blow back my long dark brown hair or a breeze to hide my decaying body. I’m dead, a man, his island, a fantasy—to actually think my boss really cares.