He sat down. Said nothing.
It was apparent, though, that something'd gone terribly wrong.
He sank deep into the magnanimous cushions
Absorbing his suffering.
A casual rendezvous.
He's hardly thirty, but not presently.
He exists in the realm before life;
The land after death.
Surrounded by the vast infinity of nothingness.
Tomorrow he'll return to his desolate cubicle
Occupied by the essence of lost-potential.
For now, though, he's woven tightly into the couch
And is lost in a world that doesn't exist.
He's home.