The way she stares at me when I am home, shoulders slouched, eyes droopy, stare dead, lack of energy - is unnerving. I know what she's thinking. She knows I'm disappointed, unhappy. I close the door behind me, but I can almost feel her coming up to me, with a concerned touch: it's okay, things don't work out some times, how are you feeling? I won't answer. Please don't ask me again, I don't want to be reminded. We blame it on the general atmosphere, find nothing else to put the blame on. I am convinced it is the sky, there is not a drop of energy i want to pour into it anymore. Let it sour, it shall corrode me, I shall disappear from view, until my absence has been noticed. Someone breathes life into it. Not me this time. Not me. You must know, though, that my hateful words should not be taken seriously for they are mere defence mechanisms. Perhaps I don't actually mean them. Perhaps I don't hate us. Perhaps I don't know what to do.

- cue in call it karma