An odd time to venture into my mind and pull out the box. Angst. As odd as three pairs of socks. Search under the rug for the key that unlocks. Dusting the lid of the box with my fingertips. I bid farewell to sanity as I slip. The eyes in the closet blink twice. Just before the box is unlocked. The torture of being ripped in two by solitude and pride. These physical pains will never exceed the spasms from inside. Still today I see it vividly, as if I were there. All these years pass and panick continues to ensue. I’m a fugitive, on the run, in everlasting despair. From the eyes that blink two. Belonging not to one but a deuce of masters, the shackles of angst are impossible to escape.