‘I’m
thinking positive thoughts,’
says
the voice from an orange tent
in
Suicide Forest.
Since
he hanged his alter ego in effigy,
Mr T.
Hashimoto has canceled
all his
psychiatric appointments.
He lies
on his back
and
mentally calculates
his cortisol
level.
His
crooked smile
duels
inconclusively
with a
crack in a coffee cup.
He has
learned that life
is as
long as a roll of pink ribbon
from
Mitsukoshi Department Store,
stretching
from trunk to trunk
and
ending in the arbitrary place
where
death waits.
But
here, under an old pine,
the
wind has cast
a
litter of new needles.
And as
the mist creeps closer,
the
whitecoats are dancing,
delirious
in the drugged air.
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