Comet

Sick of being rational, faced with so manyvariables boggling the mind.

As Malcolm would say, bamboozled by the spectres on the screen that seem to whisper "come hither, you're nearing home", yell at me "get bent, you mindless idiot" and seek to soothe.

I walk all avenues, and limp back to my lair after another half fruitful search where I (seem to) recognize that much-loved right hand, so specific.

My own right hand seems to grasp, but only ether.