My imagination is broken.
I can't work; there's a hole in my brain. When I poked around in it, I saw it had two narrow lips and a rudimentary tongue, the better to whisper of cash and the lack of same. On the uvuala was tattoed a Euro-sign. I've tried taping it up with elastoplast but it works itself free every time, muttering on and on about all the things I can't do or have. Between paragraphs it tuts like a clock, or sniggers at the ragged lines of my CV. It lays out every mistake, every missed opportunity like a Tarot hand and it reads me a shabby fortune. At night it doesn't sleep. It spins the same line out into the deeps of my dreams, dangling a sharp hook baited with fear and greed. I wouldn't mind but the voice is so much like my own.