Although I didn't write myself off as a complete failure, all illusion and romance was gone. I was no longer able to inflate myself; I had disappointed my own expectations and was genuinely worried about dying in the streets.

As the components of your life are stripped away, after all the ambitions and hopes vaporize, you reach a self-reflective starkness-- the repetitious plucking of a single overwound string.

The masses-I love em-they rush for red lights, risking everything to capture a few seconds, only to get home and waste their lives.

Although I didn't write myself off as a complete failure, all illusion and romance was gone. I was no longer able to inflate myself; I had disappointed my own expectations and was genuinely worried about dying in the streets.

Perhaps the price of comfort is that life passes more rapidly. But for anyone who has lived in uneasiness, even for a short, memorable duration, it's a trade-off that will gladly be made.

Is it so wrong to just live life and enjoy it? Between fun and function, why must we choose the latter?

When I was in my teens, I made an appraisal of how comfortable my life could turn out when I became the age I am now. Because of a mechanical failure, the prediction was inexact.