I can feel the rhythm now.
Sometimes I can hear the distant
drumbeats or organ-pedal tones
playing out their sequence of ominous low notes.
We've already heard the other shoe drop
long ago, and so many others have dropped
that each time we think the closet is empty
another falling shoe shows up.
So now we have this constant yet variable
queasiness in our solitude,
and we sometimes wonder if it's Sartre's nausea we feel,
even though he has long ceased those corporal feelings.
Did he pass it on?
Restless slumber, disquieting moments during the day
watching some interaction play itself out
to an incomplete resolution.
Another uncomfortable state of existence.