He starts his day thinking "is this all there is?"
And falls asleep knowing the answer.
The pills were supposed to help,
but only served to make things clearer.
He damns his instinct for survival.
He knows, whatever follows does not matter.
Whatever preceeded mattered just as little.
In so many days time, all that he did will
be for nothing. With any luck, it will be
relatively painless.
Aching on on the outside, numb on the inside.
Make what you can of the time you have.
Every single flower dies.
Even the plastic ones eventually wither.