Everyone who ever loved you is dead
You get home from work to discover a year's pay stuck inside your bed. You peel off your socks, you kick off your shoes, you squeeze out of your clothes like toothpaste from a tube. Sitting there, in your underwear, you don't know what to do next.
"I suppose I could masturbate," you think, but that would only kill 10, 15 minutes at the most. And, besides, nothing inspiring has happened recently. No lingering hugs with large breasts, no intercepted glances. Nothing. Defeated, you lay back in your bed and recount the day as it slowly uncurled like a snake in wet sand.
All day at work you thought about the things you'd buy for the people who mean the most to you, if you somehow had the money. A long, red car for the one who takes care of you every time you're sick. New diamond earrings for the one who kisses and hugs you each time you see her.
You get home from work to discover a year's pay stuck inside your bed. But everyone who ever loved you is dead.
"I suppose I could masturbate," you think, but that would only kill 10, 15 minutes at the most. And, besides, nothing inspiring has happened recently. No lingering hugs with large breasts, no intercepted glances. Nothing. Defeated, you lay back in your bed and recount the day as it slowly uncurled like a snake in wet sand.
All day at work you thought about the things you'd buy for the people who mean the most to you, if you somehow had the money. A long, red car for the one who takes care of you every time you're sick. New diamond earrings for the one who kisses and hugs you each time you see her.
You get home from work to discover a year's pay stuck inside your bed. But everyone who ever loved you is dead.