The day resembles a stopped clock. It’s raining, and I have toothache. Another relationship lies by the wayside, but I’m indifferent to pretty much everything that doesn’t fit in with my way of seeing things. I pen words that speak of love and the soul and then sit in silence for hours on end, unable to comprehend even the very basics of what it means to be alive. The wind outside the window carries the rain the way a mother sweeps a child off its feet when it’s in imminent danger. The stopped clock still makes a noise for the passing of every second, and yet it shows nothing other than absence. I don’t know whether I should be happy or sad about this. On the one hand, without time, I am free, and yet, I am nowhere. In limbo, I reside, neither here nor there. The can of beer that was cold is now warm, but I drink it just the same. It’ll soon be Christmas, and the ghosts that haunt me will come out of the woodwork in full force, mocking me for all of my mistakes and for having the misfortune of wanting to let forever be. If I close my eyes, I see my hands around a throat; the vestiges of what was once passion now akin to peeling wallpaper in a room blanketed in dust. The ceiling is stained with nicotine. The same as my fingers. The same as my face. Everything stays the same while silently changing, like peeking at dots of light in the night sky and marvelling at how beautiful they are as their deaths have yet to reach me from billions of years in the past.