The river bed is silent and dry.

The lovemaking is rote and aimed for release.

The pages of the book are blank, or might as well be.

The scissors are dull and the night is long and the fire is utilitarian and the names are Smith and Jones and the food is bland without spice.

The day is just hours and the clock is a black and white carousel of duty.

Is it any wonder that I am going to go intentionally insane?