Per se

There is a depth in my chest, an ache from the absence of something I know no name for. It is heavy with longing, a desire to consume, a need to experience. No amount of coffee, nicotine, conversation, or comfort allays this feeling of necessity. It is sadness that imparts a wry concern, or rather wryness over the lack thereof. It is partly an acceptance of the foils of life, an acquiescence to fate, an acknowledgment of entropy. There is that, yes, an understanding of the saddest parts of life, but coupled not with apathy, per se, but something damn close. It reeks of complacency and disappointment, a mixture both bland and nauseating. It makes me feel so dense, nearly made of stone, but so far removed from reality I might as well be on the moon. Under this malaise, I can only write in circumlocutions and speak in halfhearted murmurs. I know not what I say. I care not what I do. I am so tired, but cannot find rest.

I desperately require. . .

something.

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