I spend every waking hour yearning for sleep. With every ray of sunshine, with every shadow cast upon my existence, the dull ache of tedium slips in between my bones and stings me with every movement as though every twitch of my finger, every slip of my tongue, were taking place beneath the crushing weight of a giant boulder. The more I wrestle with my burden, the more it crushes me. I find that the most beautiful act of pure selfishness that I can perform is to play dead.

My life: a dreadful, monotonous lullaby.