solisis

Aching is he as he rubs his eye a thousand more than the thousand past. A vexation of the norm, as he sees it, and nothing more and nothing less. Emblematic of the filth he nests in by night in his means for a struggle with his own deficiencies. Turmoil, perhaps. Turmoil could serve as a reasonable definition.

It serves as an example to others who would find themselves at a loss. To never resort to such means in order to correct something beyond your own desire. You too could ache as he does. You too could rub your eye the way he does. Ceaseless, as it would seem. As though every one of them resets the clock and emits a laugh tremendous, echoing throughout the viral impurities that ricochet inside every cell passing through your cerebral cortex. It haunts him as the sun and moon unfold their course unchanged by his indirectly self imposed condition. Inadvertant, if you will.

A nuisance, merely. Resulting in days uncomfortable, yes, but moderately acceptable. Perhaps the one time it has served beneficial for him to remain indifferent over such trivial issues. In his mind, it shall pass eventually. Call it stubborn. Call it unnecessary disorientation. It could even be called gaucheness, if one were to extend the circumstances resulting from his condition.

It doesnt matter, really. It runs in the genes. Of course it will not prevent the excessive resentment should he discover permenant damage as a result of his faith in his own deductions. To trust the input of others...Why, that would be modesty. And we all know he possesses not even the faintest trace of this quality in any of his billions of cells.

Spoken for the layman, he is sick.