All the small rooms of my life have made me smaller. I can't imagine what I would do without imagination. I wish I could fit you in the small room of my imagination. On a Friday night. Sit you on my lap, rub your back and your legs. And listen to you sing hymns to the failing lightbulbs. Sing to the dying spiders.
But that's just another small room. Too small to accommodate anything but emptiness. So, I'll sing to the lightbulbs. And the spiders. I'll feed stale light to the mirror. And watch my shadow bend. Drink a bottle of red shadows and watch the night bend. Sleep through the remaining miles of accumulated regret.
Disappear before anyone knows I arrived.