He felt tired.
Tired of the words, the footsteps, the thoughts tormenting his soul.
Tired of the act, the game, the relentless slide to nothingness.
Drained by empty platitudes voiced in a monotone air.
Worn down to the root by the self-enforced, unreciprocated lightness that compounds the bulk of this temporary contract we call presence.
But instead he just said “Great thanks, how about you”?