I just got home and it is a rainy October night, already dark. I lay here on the couch in my underwear, hands still dirty from the subway, and I know if I turned on the lights and washed my hands I would feel better than I do, but I wait a few more minutes.
I am reminded of when I was in grade school, waiting in the old lady's parlor for my piano lesson, hearing the sound of my mother's car pull away. There wasn't enough light in the house, especially as it grew dark earlier and earlier. There I would sit in that musty room, watching the grandfather clock, bone tired from a long day at school, stomach growling, dreading the angry old women with the rooster neck skin, knowing I didn't practice enough—I never did—and just waiting to pay the price.
Even then I was depressed I think. Right now I can't remember a time when I was not.