The hours, they drag. They stretch, though they can't; but my mind wallows in every moment, gazing at it, dully seeing it stare back. No expression, no spark, nor any intensity. Unless intense nothingness counts.

The days, they segue. One touches the other in a lazy relay of inconsequence, passing the minimal light of continuity out of some ancient sense of duty. Or some mechanical process of biology and nature.

I eat. I eat till I feel I could burst. I enjoy the eating, but I perversely enjoy the idea of stuffing myself. It is a dull sort of perversion, not the tingling rush of twisted enjoyment.

I blink but my gaze at life feels unblinking. The sameness, the immovable horizon that isn't even there, the monotone road that stretches toward it.

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