My desk, my house is tortured, I don’t visit now, cobwebs, stains, dust, dregs, this wine is sickly, my upper palate is raw, my tongue rolls when I cough, I thought I couldn’t roll my tongue. These are my just desserts, but I’ll feel better in the morning, tickle around the edges, tackle that upper room, be ready again for fantasies of power, perhaps. The boy doesn’t even begin to comprehend how I’ve let him down, not attending to things, not attending things, watching the shit float and tumble across the room on the way to the fan. He thinks his destiny is in his hands, as I think my destiny is in mine. The generations tumble on, sparking, bursting, shrinking, sleeping, suffocating and struggling. Only always on.