I used to think J. Alfred was a sorry case:
the poor mortal man in search of something meaningful.
I used to think the meaningful important,
but now coffee spoons seem almost appropriate.

Yes, I remember rooms where people came and went,
and looked on in malice, trying to impress
in their masked agony of discontent.

Were they like me, or were they I?
Better still, (or worse yet)
was I like them?

My own agony of discontent was my own.
But my agony was different, I know it was.
I had only to look at their faces to feel their
malice (and for their sake, look impressed),
to know their discontent was not as mine.

Those rooms seem so long ago and yet,
I’m in one now.
The windows show a world that I look out into,
but am not a part of, or at least
don’t seem to be.

I don’t seem to be free.

There is my agony, my discontent.
Though I may sit in this room and lament,
it’d not be for any gain
or satisfaction.
It’s just a humble method of distraction,
to take away my mind from simple agonies,
though for some time I’ve known
(I’ve not fooled myself),
it is an agony all its own.

Simple agonies, a simple malice.
Who am I trying to impress?
There’s no one else inside my room but me,
and I’m not free.
Though I may come and go, as people do,
for now I’ll stay.

But out the window I see such a nice day.

I’d probably get a sunburn, or catch a cold,
So it’s O.K.