depressed prosepoem
I don’t want to get online. Right now I feel cheated by the fool’s-fire of Facebook. The mirage of a life. A minuet of phantasms. We’re all working our holographic puppets, projections on a dimensionless stage. They can be withdrawn or extinguished at the flick of an eyelid. Disembodied Bunraku. Our smiling, painted selves strut their stuff while our unsmiling bodies, swaddled in black, twitch the strings to distract discovery away from our den full of bones.
Ambiance 
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