They comfort him, all of these faithful friends. The threads of nonsense. The musical talents he wishes he could greet at the end of their sessions. The lukewarm Rum. With each day, while tucked away, he binds to the melancholy.
A glimmer of hope knocked on his door on an August morning, but he didn’t answer. It was too much like work, peeling himself off of that seat of security.
Another day had come and gone. Another waste of a beautiful life.
He was contemplating a change–a different way of thinking–for weeks, after a friend had suggested he’d think about the pits of indignation he was slowly drowning himself in. But, it was just a series of thoughts. Nothing more. It was just that–a suggestion. It was exactly the same as the knock at the door on that morning in August: a glimmer of hope, standing just outside his barrier. Placing itself there for a short time, then leaving.
