I awoke from an alarmingly excruciating doze as the slap drip of rain resonated on the top of an old dilapidated hermitage, an old, dilapidated hermitage in want of shingling, shingling devoid of mold and rottenness. Everything was lying horribly awry to my eyes. The rain suddenly began to slacken upon the hermitage due to an engulfing wind, as well, a shortage of moisture. The skies were full of clouds, heavily condensed in wind, heavily condensed wind that no amount of firmament could possibly penetrate. I have not left the hermitage in nearly a week in fear of paranoia. The world is enormously bleak and quintessentially dismal. I must endure its allure, an endless, magical, quaint allure. I am suffering from an overwhelmingly horrendous angst. I am plagued and spiritually brutalized, plagued, spiritually brutalized and full of an unbearably remote sadness that no amount of solve could possibly heal or coincidentally penetrate. A spirit of incurable hopelessness has suddenly taken its hold upon the strangleholds of my life, an incurable sadness refusing to relent upon the perpetuity of prey. I felt as if I were mire, heavily bogged down in mud, a feeble man, weightless, void of discretion. Yet, strangely, I was positively optimistic about the morning day. Internally, I resembled someone of nobility. Internally, I resembled someone of obstinate misery. I was given over to a spirit of loneliness, beleaguered loneliness, an immense sense of feeling, isolation, isolation and an obstinate desolation. I need to make a change, a colossal change in life. I need to venture out into the world, desperately, and finally resolve myself from the hermitage, a hermitage intimately known as sloth.
