She worries so, her head always trying to figure me out. Always on alert for what excites and pulls at my sense of adventure, searching for the thing that makes me tick.

She doesn't understand that nothing makes me tick, not anymore. Life have lost its allure, its bright colors and strong aromas. Life is dull, like the tip of a hot dog. Life is gray and gloomy, like the former union of the USSR and only the smell of rotting fruit kernels permeate the air. I see the lackluster clearly, the thin varnish that barely covers the unsteady IKEA-likeness we call life. I see through the thrills and pleasures of social interaction, seeing young passion wither and fade to bitter ash and resentment, I see exuberant friendship fall into placation and you'll-never-think-the-cow-will-leave-the-barn attitude, the flimsiness of attention and the sharing of pointless regurgitations of other peoples social status.

The only thing remaining to me are obligations, the thing we are supposed to do to get by. Washing clothes, washing the dishes, vacuuming the floor, dusting the furniture, the tedious things we have to do have become my escape. They waste my time, they pull my mind out of the dark hole of living. They are my steady companion towards the end of this life, my only friend as I walk with an agonizing slow pace towards death.

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