I looked into the closet at all my close hanging lifeless on the hangers.

“Nothing makes sense.” I said aloud.

I could remember moments, vivid, and proud moments in almost every garment that slumped before me.  I recalled successful job interviews in the crisp white shirt with the grey pinstripes.  There was the sweater I wore when I graduated from college, it has this weird geometric design that looked really fucked up in contrast to all the typical graduation gowns.  The tank top that says “SECURITY” that I ware as often as possible when I’m drinking in public.

Some shirts I have only worn once, like the plasticy metallic gold shirt that was part of my “rich space man” costume.  Or the see-through woven hemp rope shirt that just doesn’t seem to go any with pants.

But then there were articles that I didn’t recognize at all, like a leather jacket with a bullet hole in the shoulder.  And then there was a large fur coat that looks like it was made out of a whole buffalo.  I tried it on and I liked the way I looked.  Though I knew if I chose to wear it I would be admitting that my life was not my own.  Not necessarily a life left to the fate of the gods, but at least to that of a sneaky girlfriend, a stalker, or the FBI.