Every morning I wake, and hand myself back to the veil — willing prisoner of routine. Alarms blare like city-wide warnings, red lights behind my eyelids. The Grim Reaper doesn’t even knock anymore; he knows the door stays open. He reaps the drive I left unattended, leaves behind only dust where passion used to grow. Someone tried to lift me up — but hollow comfort is heavier than silence. Words without action rot like fruit in the sun. Hope without proof becomes heresy. I miss the truths that hurt — daggers that forced me to bleed purpose. Now the abyss has manners — it doesn’t chase me; I walk to it willingly. No flame. No fight. Just snow settling on the soul. Fingers numb, thoughts slow, and I wonder if pain was proof of life. The blade glides easy — metaphor or memory, I no longer check. Nails press against eyelids like rusted crowns. Still, no spark. Not even the devil bothers to bargain anymore. My conscience whispers, a ghost with nothing left to haunt: If I feel nothing, what part of me is left alive? And the echo answers back — maybe none. Or maybe this is rebirth through ruin.