"he'd walked himself weak down it's endless blue streets and those who knew how to live kept their tantalising secret to themselves"

My mood is empty. The light is dull. The carpet stained. The dirt is everywhere. 'How much of our lives is repetition,' I think. I need to fix the lamp, it's broken. 'continued rhythms,' I think, 'continued thoughts.' I sit on the bed. My legs are folded. The dirt sits beneath me, thousands of particles, hiding like ants in the carpet. I imagine myself sitting there, surrounded by the grime. I imagine that is already myself now, only I am bigger. My chest aches, I am crumbling, folding. I cover my face to block out the pain, but with every breath it is still there. On and on, it will not end, there is nothing to wait for and I stare at a dusty spot on the wall, every movement is idle, blathering. 'Don't think,' I think. Beneath me, I imagine the dirt spreading through the floor like wildfire, past the books, up the wall, and finally, into my broken mind.