The Crash, Part 1

He was at home. That's where things were. All of his things in a neat tidy bundle--his razor, shaving cream, his shoes (sorted by color --brown and black--in his drawer), his magazines, his records. And so much more. His photographs. Perhaps they meant more than anything. They could raise the past like nothing else. Except his albums, which he never played anymore. He kept them in a corner near the untouched stereo. To play them would be too heartbreaking. Yes, the aural was a much more powerful tool to dredge up old images and memories than the visual.

He had kept a diary. Just short entries. Very specific and short on descriptions. "Had lunch with X today. He complained of his parents." And so on.

He made the same breakfast every day. Toast, butter, jam and eggs. The only variant was how he cooked the eggs. Sometimes scrambled, sometimes sunnyside up. Never over easy.

Life would not end here, he hoped. And yet it felt as if it ended every day. And then, invariably, without pause or delay, it would begin again.