Still Life With Dark Cloud

I am so sad. There is a big mound of sad right here in the middle of the room, on top of my pile of collapsing cardboard furniture. It's a big heaping smelly bunch of sad. Every five minutes it whirls around a bit, shifts colors, and gets bigger. Soon there won't be any room for me in this room of sad. Every time the sad gets bigger, it gets heavier. The floor is starting to creak. It's an old, worn out plastic floor, not meant for more than two people to stand on at the same time. This sad is bigger than the both of us. When the floor breaks, it will take me down with it, into the sad. Some people say the sad is dark and black, but it's really grey with flashes of pink and green. When it puffs itself up, you can see many things inside. The things look like they're fun -- there's laughing and poking and painting of cheeks with butterflies -- but they're really quite, quite sad. As it emanates the odor of spilled perfume and old wet towels, the sad pulls me in. It has a magnetic force, it leaves dusty black tracks, it makes me sneeze. It's an armless ventriloquist and a rusty cotton-candy machine. It's popcorn dropped in the grass and stepped on. It's a pair leather ballet shoes soaking in a tub of scummed up rainwater. It's paralyzed lips with the will to kiss. It's teeth falling out when you bite into chocolate cake. It's tripping in front of a bus and getting only half run over. It's the dream of being in your underwear in front of your modern history class and waking up to realize that your class was over years ago and you missed the final. You failed, you never went back. You never bothered until it was too late.