I want to scream, to stamp my feet. My vision contracts into a shaded tunnel, I rage, rage against the dying of the light.
I cannot find the place where I buried my anger. My body is an archeological site. I dig carefully - handpick, chip brush, screen sieve. I bypass huge blocks of rage. When I near a trove of anger, part of me shuts down. I hear a “click”. An ember goes out. I feel nothing. Where’s my fucking backhoe.
I scream.