Work Text:
Tired.
He is so tired.
Tired of the people and tired of all the grey evenings spent alone in front of the monotone television in the monotone living room with the monotone walls.
Nothing's new.
Maybe he isn't tired. Maybe he's sick.
Sick of people, of evenings and television and monotone houses with monotone walls.
And still, nothing's new.
He can almost feel himself withering away when he goes into the monotone kitchen to fix himself a monotone slice of bread and eat it while looking out the monotone window at the monotone landscape.
Nothing's new.
Red eyes.
Tears.
Nothing's new.
The tears are gone.
Red eyes.
Dry lips.
He doesn't react as fast as he used to.
Nothing's new.
He isn't getting old.
"I thought he was immortal", the people would say.
Nothing's new.
And he can't stand the sight of the colorful pictures in their colorful frames on the monotone walls of the monotone house.
Maybe he should take them down.
After all, they represent something he hasn't had for a long while.
Happiness, the carefree way of living life. An earlier time, when the stock market crash of 2008 was a good decade away.
He'll keep the pictures. The colorful pictures on the monotone walls of the monotone staircase in the monotone house.
He is still tired.
Nothing is new.