I was standing in my shower this morning,
standing there, leaning up against the wall,
hunched over,
feeling the heat mix the concrete in my shoulders
and the steel in my neck,
and watching the years of steam
rise off my battered mind
like a sad and sterile chimney.

I was standing there,
when I reached over to grab my French shampoo...
and noticed...
that there, indented on the bottle,
was braille.

Yes, braille.
My shampoo bottle had braille on it.

I never noticed that before.
Right there over the label.
Right there, over the French text that I could not read anyway, was braille,
something else I could not read.

I received this fancy shampoo with the purchase of a new suitcase.
It is special.
It is cheap suitcase-gift basket-shampoo.
And this whole time, I thought the label was wrinkled and old.
But it wasn't.
It was new and progressive.

I think that pretty much sums it up for me.
Do you know the old saying: "Can you see the writing on the wall?"

Well, my response to that is this:
"No. No, baby, I don't see the writing on the wall.
But I did notice the braille on the shampoo.
And just like you,
or that fucking wall,
or the swirling Universe around me...

I have no idea what it's trying to tell me.
And I sure as hell ain't learning to read French braille."