A little gray box,

with a small orange spiral,

sits quietly here.

Often overlooked,

very rarely remembered,

the box sits dormant.

I push a button,

orange light splashes the gray,

and a fan turns on.

It is a relic,

from when broadband was still new,

from the late '90s.

This box shows no age,

it knows little wear and tear,

it loads games with ease.

A box of promise,

SEGA's flagship game console,

a new leaf to turn.

For barely one year,

the Dreamcast was at the top,

despite SEGA's past.

SEGA had been cruel,

dishing out expensive parts,

all without support.

Profit margins slim,

and SEGA tapped out on cash,

the Dreamcast soon failed.

A coup de grace,

delivered by a black box,

Sony's PS2.

To add to this mess,

the Dreamcast would read burned disks,

pirates pillaged it.

SEGA's last big save,

all for nothing in the end,

their gray box failed them.

The gray box sits here,

dutifully playing games,

a living tombstone.

A portal opens.

I find myself forced through it.

The portal closes.

I land in darkness.

A barren land stretches here,

catching those who fall.

There is no sunlight,

nothing to look forward to,

not a shred of hope.

I heard an old man,

a driver of sixty-five,

wants just a bar stool.

He will sit and drink,

wait for death to pull his card,

and go quietly.

I know a young man,

not much older than myself,

already quite worn.

Many jobs he's known,

yet he has no long-term plan,

I worry for him.

I looked at myself,

saw so much wasted schooling,

yet I keep my hope.

I have been lucky,

my parents quite lenient,

and my bills quite low.

I have what few have,

some time to fix my whole life,

I will not waste it.

I just need a job,

one to lead to another,

to establish me.

A portal opened,

one that leads to school and work,

I will jump through it.

I will work harder,

I'll study more carefully,

and I'll keep my hope.

These walls hear dreams.

As one goes, white noise follows

Into these rooms, and it reverberates

From ceiling to

Corner and corner and

Back again.

Louder, it grows

As notes add on.

In the bare brush of feet

Along this carpet,

In the faint strains

Of this song or another,

In the cracking of these

Sore knuckles,

In the pre-recorded applause

Of late night with

Insert name here,

In the rustle of weight

Shifting and sheets moving,

In the bangs of falling things

And muffled curses from

Hurting others,

In the clicking of a pen

And the jingle of

Keys,

In the rush of a door

Slam shaking the foundation,

In the scraping of a fork 

And drip of 

A leaky faucet,

In the riotous laughter

Outnumbered by the 

Soft pull of tissues

From a box,

Collectively it is the whole of

An existence.

Decipher the static and

All you will hear

Is a life, in these

Small sounds.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Dust dances with the rock, dirt, and mulch of the earth. Earth shifts, moves evolves. Where will I end it up? My head head may sink beneathe the layers into a sea of lava. My thighs may be pushed to the surface and grow into grass. Grass that is crushed by the splendors of innocent children, or by the footsteps of murderous adults. My chest that you'st to breathe, beat and flow is traveling down a stream into the ocean. My bodily nutrients may aid the growth of a great oak or sit lifelessy under the city streets. Where will I go? I do not know. My body is not my own in death.