Let the fires bathe us...

Mislim, da sem končal.

Zdaj pa res. 

It's hard to say what exactly is wrong with him. It's nothing, but it's also all-encompassing. He feels strangely empty, devoid of thought and energy. He is not sure where his days go, but they go. Every single thing he must do, any hint of a demand, grinds against him. He doesn't know what he'd do in that time should he ever achieve that perfect aloneness. He likes to think he would write more, but in truth he would probably sleep. His brain feels entirely separate from him. It is empty, but it also cannot take any more in. It seems that it's a useless organ, endlessly refusing to notice what he wants it to notice. It will not engage. It just glances off everything, a pale beam.