deeper than sleep
It's getting more and more difficult to navigate this room as the regrets accumulate around me. I want to move to a place called gone. All I want for Christmas is a year's supply of narcotics. I will get to where the going is good and the good are gone. If anyone asks, tell them I moved into a lighthouse at the bottom of the ocean, because the fish, too, need a little light in their lives.
Or tell them I opened a drive-in theater on the Moon, a massive silver screen looming over the craters, and me sitting alone, watching old movies, with the little speaker pressed to my ear, the Earth receding behind me.