I'm broken-- not in the fucked-up, she-loves-me-not sort of way. Nah, it's more crowded than that. I don't (can't, won't) sleep, and my appendages ignore me, and my eyes are screaming, and the sunsets are abhorrent. So I'm broken, I say while the letters keep dropping footsteps on a page. Certainly, I'd let Watson raise me to be a beggar or Skinner, a rat, if either took me someplace new. It's all just boredom. I should write a suicide note to see who I am to wonder over all the things I've left behind Ho! Ounces and ounces of matter ask me to hold them, roll them coolly through my fingers, yet they won't hold me. I've never seen a shattered lamp before. I can imagine one. It doesn't lament like this. Make me a lamp: give me a shade and tasseled arms. Yes! I'm ready.