| Current mood: |  rejected |
| Current music: | The Smiths- Hand in Glove |
I'm lonely.
When I am lonely, I have nothing better to do than sit around and let my mind work. I stare at the wall for passing hours. Hours on endless hour, becomming tighter and less endurable. Up and down. My body tenses and relaxes like clockwork, creating a teasing ticking of its own. All a steady reminder that though the world is moving, I am static. Standing still. A tv on pause with a pulse.
It's raining outside, a lulling rapping. Like the raven. Tapping.
My eyes blink with each strike, my head droops. I wearily snub out my cigarette so that I won't drop it and put another hole into the carpet. It hisses in the ashtray, split bear thickly lining the blackened bottom.
My hands return to the arms of the chair, grabbing and caressing the coarse fabric before coming to rest. Stopping. Losing their life and falling asleep. A rising numbness. My fingertips are the first to go, soon overtaking my arms. My eyes. My chest.
Then I fall asleep.
I wake to the same routine.
Every now and then there is the sound of the tv, some light cheering and peppy talk of a gameshow host. Sirens. You're a winner.
Flashing lights outside. Lighting. Sirens. Anything. Could be anything.
But this is not really my world, this is just a midway between heaven and hell. My duty is to survive, to keep from falling asleep and letting it all wash away from me like a layer of useless grime and filth. But I am the scum of the world, and the sleep won't be denied.
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