SLOTH is playing at an empty concert hall, your callused hands caressing your violin like a lover nevermore and you try to drown out the commotion of the world outside these walls with the song that plays in your ears now, gentle and melodically hypnotic but it can’t stop the onslaught of noises and you are nothing more than a tense string on the violin, quivering at the intensity at which you pull yourself together to keep from snapping, so you ignore the droning helicopters circling above, the honks of cars bustling on the nighttime strip, the talking, the laughing, the endless, nonstop percussion of the universe pushing into your mind with no chance of backing down and good god, it never stops and it wears you thin but you continue, numbing the wretched noise and you play and you play and you play -you, this tenuous string on the verge of snapping- and you believe that if you continue to play the symphony outside would actually pause and listen, become silent with awe and the entire loud orchestra from the trumpets of blaring cars, to the flute of the birds on the swaying trees, to the drums of the words coming from people’s mouths will stop and stare but when the song finally ends, you realize the world continued on without you, playing its torturous tune to no end, shrugging away your attempt at trying to block it all out, and you’re exhausted and breathing hard and you realize that this constant brutality of life is so ******* tiring, and you grow weary, bones dragged down by languor, and you’d rather fade into the dusty old background than embrace cruel fate because what’s the use in anything anymore when it’s just going to slap you right back in your face, and you stop, take a deep breath and give up and the string finally fractures, curling ever so slightly on two separate sides of the spectrum, never to be fixed because sloth doesn’t care if you played too hard and you finally snap, not when utter silence strikes and it’s left alone to lounge away and let the world pass by in blissful static.