jonasmott

Jonas was bored senseless. He had felt this way for as long as he could remember. He was an insomniac in a city that always slept. When he gazed upon the streets of Manchester, which he had lived in his entire life, it was as if he were looking out over a stagnant grey swamp. The noxious, cloying vapors that wafted from it stung the insides of his nostrils with their mundaneness. Miserable shambling forms moved jerkily through the miasma, but he seldom paid them any mind. He just trudged through the muck, his head bobbing to the tune in his headphones, his feet shlucking ever forward, but never seeming to make any progress. Even the taste of his food was tainted, so he drew sustenance from music and friends and literature. Surely his sanity would have fled him years ago if not for these three things. And Ganja. Maybe his sanity had fled him... or maybe that was the sleep deprivation.