it struck him; hit square in the glass jaw on the right side; broken, shattered, bits and pieces….

I have captured myself…the world has not held me….that I have done thoroughly, the wait was over; quietly he sat; dumbfounded….

all this time….wasted with anger…rage…hate…at a planet of people….accused of crimes against me, he scoughed….

I’ve trapped myself….murdered me…done away with my soul….and for what?, a drag on a smoke, all to avoid self-blame….

but, he hated Ayn Rand; disillusioned with the thought of self reliance solely; no need for assistance….a minch….

I never knew what I wanted till it was too late….success is now a young man’s game, he wiped sweat off the wrinkled brow, it’s too late…

the mattress sagged in the middle, books by Dostoevsky lay around a small room in piles, oh my, he puzzled, oh my….what have I done…..

a pistol sat on a dresser……

the end.