no one here but me and my ghosts recurring nightmares from which there is no waking and the neverending sadness of things that were never meant to be

the ghosts of what-if, dreams cut down before their time wishes stillborn hopes that sickened then died

strange how the memory of things that never became could haunt even my waking hours

sifting through the paper trail receipts and movie tickets bank statements and insurance policies the last traces of my ill-spent moments lying alone in the cold dark hoping for stillness the only record that these five years had some kind of impact upon the world-at-large however mundane and trivial, pointless and without meaning dismembered by the shredder gone

no use hanging on to lottery tickets when you already know they didn't win