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”?
No comments:
Post a Comment