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Warm.. only to burn

A slight indication was evident that a cold, bumming night was imminent ahead. Music woke him up, ironically to the Rage Against The Machine song Wake Up. He was too disoriented to care about the song. He knew something would have to happen tonight, even if it meant there wasn't anything at all to begin with. His droopy eyes gazed at the apparatus beside him in bed, a laptop, pulled the noisy thing out and postured lazily like a sloth trapped in a contemporary cage of comfort. Checked all the things needed to be checked. Mobile blurts out a sudden agonizing noise. He hates it, unless it's something he cares for. It usually isn't.. so why bother?

The first step out of the bed is always the most gut-wrenching one. It's either you trip over from laziness or sleepiness or nothing ever happens. That's the only two choices available. There is never a good option, an amazing one mayhap. He still had a couple of hours in time to prepare, and he loathes that anxiety, he knew for certain that a certain figure is certainly coming for certain in certainty, and he expects the worst, because another certain figure besides the certain figure mentioned before is certainly with this certain figure for certain in certainty. Figureheads are complicated retards, and he proved that later that night.

A woman was on the phone, he sighs. Not again. Never again, he thought. Tattooed in his brain was the insult. It was still a little too fresh for his own good. It haunts him every single day. It plagues his work, his ethics, his relationships with people, even family, and most of all, it attacks the disordered consciousness that kept dormant inside of him that he for long hid for reasons so obvious he can't even say them properly. He ignored the message and went back to his ways.

Not too long after the device rang loudly as it ever could. He stood idly in the middle of his room, acting undaunted, hoping it will all go away with a blink of an eye. It didn't budge. He knew he had to answer it. It wouldn't look good public perception-wise, and he is a whore for other people's attention. He just had to do it, or die regretting the fact he didn't.

He held the phone in his main arm, the right one, spat out coarse words from his lips pretending to be asleep. He anticipated that the person on the right line would wonder how it is he didn't reply to her text. He was right. He most often is. And so they decided to meet somewhere. At least there was someone nice enough to not care being with him. Rejoice! The clouds shiver at that momentous occasion. Rarely does it ever occur. But he held back in his emotions, those personal things need not be taken in a different context. It never really goes according to plan. Learned it the hardest way.

He lied back in bed and swam in his infinite reverie. Random thoughts recoil back and forth with no purpose or intent. It was there only to serve as a mocking example of what he used to be and what he still is. A shadow of a shadow, repressive recluse tenfold.

Not long later he jumped up and decided it's time for shower, and soonafter regretted the fact he did.

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