He lays on the bed, listening to the sounds of house creak and settle in the night. The house is empty, save for him and his thoughts. At times, it gets so quiet, he can hear his heart beating in his ears, thinking it sounds as if a marching band is beating their way across his forehead, down into his eardrums.
Sure, he could wack off again, maybe that would wear him out enough to get some sleep, but he just doesn't feel like making the effort. He wants to stop thinking about things, about his life, about his solitude, his lack of anything, everything. He wants to sleep, forever.
Nah, its not a suicidial thing he's thinking about, he's been thinking about that. His friend's kid just killed himself and that always stirs up those old memories. That night with the pills, the booze, the hospital, the thick charcoal sludge shoved down his throat, the failure of it all. But it's not that at all. It's not anything, it's not everything. Just emptyness and wanting, no, needing, a way to fill the emptyness with something.
He longs to figure out what that something is.
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