Insomniac.

A pity it is, when your days have turned to nights.

Sunlight, hidden beneath blankets of grey clouds, rain showering the rooftops and filling our gutters, like swollen tear ducts. Weary beneath the cool sway of the wind, the color of the grass grows faint, immersing itself into the puddles of rain water, turning shades from emerald to a mournful laurel green.

It is only 3pm, and the sky is as dim as midnight. How long has the hand taken to pass from one minute to another. How dreary the wait for the arrival of the next hour. 

It is in the broadest of daytime that my limbs are paralyzed.

I cannot move further than to stretch the length of my arm. Simply, to reach out to the telephone, or to tickle my fingers through the keyboard of my computer, are the best of my efforts. 

If it's not the trait of the sloth, then it is the trait of a mad man - a sad man.

How far deep can depression hold you back? 

Can you walk out your door and still put a smile on your face? Or does the mere call of your name spite you?

I am shriveled and bitter.

Only dost my pillow know the truth behind my secrets, for I have dreamed many dreams that stained their faces with the dying morsels of my soul.