Maybe I should open a coffee house,
with a Faulkner theme,
and call it “As I Lay Chai-ing,”
or sell my few meager possessions
and disappear without leaving a trace.
In any case, I couldn’t be accused
of being cowardly or unoriginal.
But as the universe remains
cold and indifferent,
I throw myself ad nauseam
into my works and required texts
so that one day,
when I look at myself in the mirror,
I will gaze upon wrinkles and scars
born out of suffering and wisdom,
instead of staring into the abyss
of boredom and disappointment.