Your Purse

Seven in the morning, and I’m still awake. Searching.

Exhausted, feeling barely alive, but there’s no respite for me. Not here. Not now.

I must search until my quarry‘s found, but I grow to suspect my quarry doesn’t exist. It’s a myth, a cruel hoax, and the indifferent universe looks on and laughs at my expense.

This is what Hell is, it is Purgatory. Searching endlessly without any hope of success or respite.

I try to explain, but the words can’t be made clear.

Your purse isn’t here, you left it at the bar.

For God’s sake, stop harassing me.