Dropped inside the bitter ugliness of their (un)perfect world, there he lies in his bed of sorrows.
King of nothingness, or the randomly accepted intelectual wannabe in the village of rotten sensibilities, there he is for them to spit.
After all those rusty years, he finally realized that all the rushes were nothing but a complete waste of time.
If you can't be happy for at least five minutes a day, what's the meaning of your life?
What's the purpose of being depressed twenty-four seven, if you're not even able to have someone by your side, kissing your lips and grabbing your cold hand to comfort you, when the rest of the world seems to hate you?
Would you even be able to feel that hand, after all these decades of insane sickness?
(I wish I was...)...