Degenerate.
My weight, suddenly a massive and incalculable thing, pours over the unforgiving edges of a chair that has no interest in supporting me.
A Judas Cradle.
A wooden horse.
Something that was never meant to provide comfort.
I sit lifelessly as tiny metal hands press impatiently against my back, when suddenly I realize I can no longer picture your face.
I used to know you; every curve and angle of an image worshiped like the shape of a god; a splendid architecture deserving of prayer; a construction beyond my ability to comprehend.
Only glimpses now.
Just flashes.
A frame that twinkles between the black.