Still in bed.

It rained. He hadn't thought of that. The night before while turning everything over in his mind, he imagined the morning, clear and bright with soft breeze that gently helped him on his way. But this morning was so grey. Wet and grey, and smiling was impossible and sleeping was all he could think about now. He wanted to go from here really, deep down, he knew it was what he needed to do, but his bed was warm.

It rained yesterday morning too. And there he stayed, again, in bed til 3 and felt all at once both guilty and brilliant. "The whole world has managed to get out of bed today", he thought, and rolled away from the grey of his window, dotted with rain that made the world outside look like it was crying.

There was nothing left that he liked. Nothing he used to do was fun anymore. The music he used to listen to became stale and pointless. Drinking lost its edge, food lost its taste, and he was merely staying alive, living off the Government he didn't know anything about, in a town he hated.

He never felt sad, but he never felt happy. He knew people but never connected anymore, he had family that he didn't like to talk to, and television had become a murmur that he sat in front of, no longer caring about what went on around him. Nothing was right.

He was in a rut, and with no motive to get out of it, decided to get comfortable in it. But comfort isn't good enough, a person needs more. And one night, when imagining the next morning's hopeful and productive routine, it started to rain, and while the world outside his window cried, he did too.

A neighbour found him a few days later. Peering in through his bedroom window, she saw beside an assortment of empty pill boxes, and a large bottle of something strong, he was still lying in bed, like he was so used to doing these days.