Alco-drawl

Here we are, alone again. Does it get any easier? I guess that's not really the point. Loneliness has pushed some men to suicide, others to genius. And where, pray, is it taking me? Nowhere fast. I still write, the words flow, but my heart just isn't in it anymore. I have become bitter, rambling, a tramp; the Ancient Mariner, but with no story to tell. These days I just float and fester. I'm not going to force it anymore. I'm done with excitement and explosions. Nothing ever happens, and that's how I like it.
I buy my drink from the same shop each night. The same drink. The same woman behind the counter. She always looks at me¦ I don't know, it's just a look¦ like she's concerned about me. But she always just tots up the transaction, takes my money, bags it up. It's pretty much silent, the whole thing. And that's how it's supposed to be, I feel. It's perfect as it is. If just a single extra word was inserted into our daily dialogue, it would all be ruined. That's how fragile life is. It can break on a single word.
Life isn't hard, it's just dull. Dull, dull, dull. So relentlessly dull, in fact, that hardship and suffering actually come as a relief.
Whatever, I'll always just be right here.
Drinking the same drink as always.