Article: 179016 of talk.bizarre
From: (Zvi Gilbert)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: bowl
Date: 2 Dec 1994 02:22:36 GMT
Organization: nylon rutabaga co.
Lines: 26
Message-ID: <3bm0dc$>
Status: O

And the lamp finally dies, and the dark swims in.

It wasn't my fault, he keeps repeating. She; I; it: it wasn't my fault.  It
was those movies they keep showing, those movies and this brain. Too much
cholesterol and not enough sane. It wasn't my fault.  

The goldfish go round and round. And they love to go round. It's what they
do. They shine like little lamps from across the room, through his
half-closed eyelids, through the sharp sweat smell of the room.   

Now he wants a bag of chips, now he wants a beer. He prys himself out of
his collapse and wipes the tears from his face. The walls are still ringing,
but the telephone won't. The leaning tower of dead lamp is blocking his
path, and he struggles with it and pushes it more groundwards as he gets up.
Look at the new dent in the wall. Last one, this time around. 

He grabs his coat, muttering little half-phrases, and stalks out. He leaves
the goldfish. They are so happy to be swimming. 

As he slams the door, the lamp slumps a little more. The bulb lights.

there isn't anything in this world / that can lock up my love again 
(Bruce Cockburn, "Fascist Architecture")