He sits upright in bed staring at the white wall, thinking about life. About how he wants to hit snooze again and forget he's alive. About how he knows he's going to get yelled at for being late again. What does it matter though? He doesn't care about his boss; in fact he barely even cares about his job. He barely ever shows affection towards anyone these days, head turned to the ground, eyes lonesome. He feels like a part of him is missing, like someone reached inside his chest and pulled out the piece of him he tried so many years to keep a hold of. He looks at the world differently now, the expressions on faces, the smiles he knew were never real. He tells himself the dream will end soon. He laughs, wishing every morning has never made it come true; he asks anyway. Stumbling out of bed he kicks through the clothes on the floor deciding which skin to wear today. Arrogance, fear, depression, he keeps kicking, grief, pity. Pulling fear over his head he knows grief is not far behind. Fear for what? Fear for living, for his dream, for the next morning when he wakes up kicking the same shit, asking the same questions. Grief for what? Grief for the fear he has walking through the halls seeing smiling faces, for the part of himself he lost. Where did that go anyway? Maybe it was too sweet and time melted it away in the heat of the days. The long nights with endless dimes and blank stares. It was only a matter of time, he thought, before it dissolved away.