April 1, 2008
Slippered in chrome, the nail clipper sits on the shelf. Facing the wall, his expression is one of desperation. He has been here three weeks, and all he can see is the wall. He hears movement behind him and can see the shifts of light, but no one moves to pick him up. He has no purpose, no life that he can sing of but that of a shining irregularity on a shelf in a bathroom. He is hungry. He feels lean and hard and his eyes plead with the wall for meaning, for some echo of his own voice.