Robert (sectoraurea) wrote in tellhimtonight,

Nothing But Death.

*He's lying on the couch again, feeling it's the most comforting place in the flat, leafing through a book of poems, reading a poem here and there, but not really concentrating on the words, unable to understand what they really mean -- yet, there's something about the lines that makes him feel ill at ease.

Sighing, he closes the book and puts in on the floor beside the couch, trying to think of something else but the problems around him. He turns on his back, staring at the ceiling again, noticing that there's a crack on it.

What if the house will fall into pieces, and I'll be crushed under them? Wouldn't that be jolly?

He'd want to fall asleep, but doesn't feel drowsy, just internally exhausted.*
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