Am I Tired? Too tired to figure it out.

stockmen

Tick, plop. Droplets seemingly the size of marbles hammered into my soggy jacket, shoving my drained feet deeper into the dark mud. A scared squirrel scurried past me, but I could pay no attention to the world around me. My footsteps echoed in the confines of my head, an oddly hypnotic rhythm mixed with the sound of a faint, inarticulate heart. The world seems to have veiled itself with a featureless, ashen fog, stretching into infinity but at the same time squeezing and choking me like a cloth of lead. Time is a snail, dawdling in idleness as it witnessed my battles. Rest is for the weak, I must keep going, keep walking, keep fighting.

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