There were just about a hundred pages to go, and I yawned. It was a good book, so far. I was finally starting to understand what I was reading. The author’s writing style – present, flashback, present, flashback etc. – was one I hadn’t seen in a while. I was tired though, so I took a break and looked for something else to do. Sleeping wasn’t really an option since I was at work, but I couldn’t read anymore, at least not for a while.

I wondered when I would start living again, for the umpteenth time. What would push me to do it? No answer, as usual. I didn’t really mind. I had told myself not to worry about it, to just leave things as they are and let stuff happen. I worried way too much, and this was just one less thing for me to worry about. One thing I really did not want to worry about.

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