boats, clouds, and a palm tree

These coffee cups collecting next to her bed. A tin cup holding old cigarettes and their dusty ash. The room coated with a layer of sadness and smoke. Her sheets worn and crumbled. Her candles burn for hours as she stares at her ceiling. Some days she sees boats, some days she sees clouds, others she sees a palm tree struck stark down the middle by a bolt of lightening. There were books instead of dishes in her cupboards. Jars instead of books on her shelves. Her life was lived like this, lived within a perpetual state of confusion. Why?
Why did the television have a singular button to serve as both a means of turning it on, as well as off. But why did the calculator have two different buttons? The on is just as important as the off. Why did the author end her book in the middle of a sentence? Where exactly was her longitude and latitude at this exact moment? How long had she been this way? How did her words come out cracked and coy in the morning air? Did they dry out in the night? The coffee cups keep collecting next to her bed. The palm tree splits down the middle. Why did you leave?