At night he would go to bed early and wake when the world was still silent. He held many of his hours during that time, using them to clean and write and iron his forlorn shirts. And then, after a productive if not altogether energetic time, he went back to bed. He didn't need energy then, that would come later.
He thought, once upon his youth, that tired was the only true way to live, running just enough on steadfast fumes. There was too much to do, too much to think, and nowhere near the minutes he needed. So the coffee multiplied, the sleeping dwindled, and our hero was left with far too few memories.
Until one day: No. He woke and saw the bedsheets barely shifted, the sign of a hard and impenetrable slumber, a sign that was becoming as commonplace as his caffeinated palpitations. He legs lagged and his skin sagged and the bags under his eyes looked like bruises. This was his lifestyle beating him up, his ass being kicked by his own bad decisions. Until he flung the sheets from the bed, screamed and screamed loudly, and made up his mind to do less. But do it better.
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