Within a heartbeat my bed, which should be filled with nights sleeping and lovers and joy, becomes a furrow.
A fetid hole with my books, screens, and 'home entertainment' scattered over my bed leaving only a line in which I exist: my body exists.
Sad porn for a pity wank abide to stem any sexual energy which invades this pitiful status quo.
Psychological solace is found in Facebook articles. Being angrier at the injustices of the world is easier than swallowing the pathos of my solitary dwelling.
Films, TV series, books are all skimmed through and rejected with a pathological ennui. There is the occasional passage or book that can hold my interest and my starving soul devours it, only to be hungry again in a few hours time.
The fusty aroma of this God forsaken room echos the internal blue funk that I feel.