The bleak, empty walls of my room no longer share the special tongue that they once used to with my mind's eye, urging it to sore into the open skies into the world of it's own choice. They now display to me no character other than their extreme opaque whiteness. How much longer do I sit here, with my over worked left brain refusing like a stubborn child to absorb any more of the printed matter that lies ahead of me? The only thought that comes to my mind is the reccurrent question that smites as long as I'm conscious- How long does it take for a person to simply perish of no lethal disease other than just doing nothing? Maybe I'll eventually evaporate into thin air, thoughtlessly idle, doing neither myself nor the world an ounce of good. Each second passes by like a millenium as a wait for something to happen; even an indication of something to happen. I feel like old Tithonus, waiting for a miracle to sweep me into the land that mentally already reside in- nothingness.