He was thinking that there was no greater hell than the one a man created in his own mind, because it’s the one of his making. Other versions are out of his hands, but his inner hell is his creation. That’s the one that destroys in a slow, insidious way, eating away, parasitic. It takes a daily toll, for even on the good days it is there, submerged, but never far from the surface. He sees it every night in that face in the mirror, even when he smiles at himself (a futile gesture). He sees the years ticked off in that face and can no longer call himself young. Those eyes don’t lie to him; even when their mad light is subdued on the best of nights, or when moist from sexual relief, they are still like heated coals, forever warmed by that hell (the stove just isn’t roaring this night).

Still, he is capable of appreciating his moments of joy. That is called maturity, he thinks. Play with time a little bit (like some fun with an instrument), or let yourself think you are. Relish your moments of “command”. Take a bow once in a while (for you know the pain isn’t far away); it is your due simply for being here.