I crouch before the flickering fire, holding up a telegram. It is old…a clue to a riddle that was solved years ago. Still I try to find meaning in it--
for I find meaning in nothing else.
The world has long been robbed of hue; the moon must be high. A wind moans and I shudder.
I hide in the darkness…I hide from myself.
I wish he had not been called to a patient's bedside tonight.
I wish my mind would stop turning over and over and over and over, taking every word I've read or written, spilling them into a soup of letters, black and jagged and cutting me terribly.
I grasp the telegram, staring manfully at it—I must make sense of it. I must understand, though I know not what. I must find something--I try so hard to keep the meaning from crumbling between my fingers, all for naught.
I deceive myself so often, for so long—I convince my mind that I am of use to the world…because if I don't believe that, I will fall apart. If I don't know I'm needed—well, that's the end of it.
I am nothing but a man, in the darkness of his sitting room.
I rest my head on my knee, letting the telegram fall.
I am broken.