I find myself pondering endlessly beyond what I would confidently surmise, as mere reminiscence, a sincere invocation of shadowy premise, but despite the fact that beyond the vapid fringes of memory there remains little to gather of my nostalgia, I seem rather obsessed with the commonplaces of the past. Perhaps it is the sorrow, growing on me, through the loneliness of sleepless nights. The languor of deplorable abeyance, the anxiety of restless thought, none of it makes sense. I feel as if I am waiting for death while counting my last days on this uninspiring terrain. The morning rays peer through my curtains with amber illumination, and I grimace at their augmenting cast, wishing that a shrewd death had crept over me, and snuffed whatever is left of my soul. I am alone, and so very lonely. It is only hunger that stirs me out of my bed. Hunger and an intolerance of the sun. I hear people on the sidewalk beneath, many of which bear that ostensible warmth of contentment in their strides. It is the contentment of those with loved ones or at least some abundance of money to ease manifold measures of suffering. If I leapt from this distance I would perhaps die, or at least subject myself to a suffering less abstract than my own. No matter, I have nothing to live for, the effect of the act upon any of these accounts, leaves me all the same. Dead. Even with this sentiment, I cannot designate those below me as living, with anything of a confident profession, for they come and go like specters. Perhaps I am lonely because I am a God, and these souls are merely fragments of my disappointment. Regardless, this noon will be my last. I have no regrets, and not a person in sight to extend a hand of commiseration.