Discordant are these sounds.
Ska sails searing -
through the plaintive piano that murmurs platitudes.
The clock ticks, off beat, and my brother lets out a moan of disgust.
He has discovered your hair in the plug hole.
I open up pages to log into various internet accounts, hoping to connect with friends who are mine alone, who have left messages during my period of hibernation within your heart. Each time I must sign you out first. And this is why the incongruity of these surroundings is sweet. Because you are not here anymore and it is quite right, so, that they are so wrong.