Blegah.

You’re soaked in a grim, swallowing sweat. A tune you can dance to fills your head completely, and becomes the only escape from the spiraling mess that your mind is now. You get up to seek some company, but you realize there’s none around that matter.
Nobody notices your self-important moment when you slam the door open to get outside. And the fresh air just worsens it; you can hear yourself more clearly.
You begin to question the disability of your situation, your helpless conditioning, and the pulp of your will, generally in that order. You then fumble with a pack of cigarettes and one of them drops to the floor and gets soiled. Out of pity, you pick it up and flame it. It’s the least of your problems.
You could’ve done better. With everything. Hell, everyone in the world could’ve done better. But you could’ve done much more. Piss it. Maybe you crave loss, madness, grief. Incompetence of your being, then, is a sure-fire way to get there.

Go on then,
Whistle away that tune,
And pretend that you don’t care.

Don’t forget to lie to yourself,

Maybe it’ll get you somewhere.