Shadowy static cracks in my veins and the silence asphyxiates my conscious mind.

My words are futile and thus this is a silent soliloquy of somber anguish.

The silence reverberates off of the empty chambers of my mind, reminding myself of my own inadequacy.

Tired appears to be the default.
I'm sad but tired.
I'm mad but tired.
Even when people are happy they still appear to be tired...

Is our mere state of existing so exhausting?