Actually, it's just an everyday nightmare. The same pile of dogshit, the same teaspoon. And do you know what's frightening ? What's scary ? It's a nightmare which does not scare me anymore. I just live in it now, a horrible tale of habits. Waking-up, jerking-off, drinking up, throwing-up, feeling down, sleeping it off. And the days run by with no hope for even a tiny bit of change. There was hope once, but my habits - of this fucking nightmare of a life - sent hope astray. Now it's just me talking to myself,  lying on a bed and counting cracks on the ceilling instead of stars in the sky.  The only unusual thing that could pull me out of this misery is death. But she's a lady of habits as well, and usually she knocks on your door when you least want her to. Death is a cunt, and so is life.