An old friend

Can you beat this, wisdom staring at you at 2 in the night, from the cartoon strip of a newspaper. Who else but the impeccable little lad from Calvin and Hobbes. Sigh.
A box of new crayons! Now they're all pointy and lined up in order, bright and perfect. Soon they'll be a bunch of ground-down, rounded, indistinguishable stumps, missing their wrappers and smudged with other colours. Sometimes life seems unbearably tragic.

Nothingness

And then there are days like this when you come out of the shower clad in your pristine white bath towel and just sit on your bed and not move, not even think.
You just know it. You just saw it early this morning as you walked down the empty street and just looked over your shoulder, at the butchers, floor covered in fresh blood. So fresh that there are no flies yet , almost touching the road, touching you on the road, fresh carcass hanging, the insides of a creature being pulled out.
There is no hope. We are all doomed. Pieces of us die everyday, insides of you pulled out by invisible hands all the time, and sometimes all the scar that is left is an ache.
You feel a horrible, terrifying ache as you reach out and grope into space, tears in your eyes and crashing noises in your ears, teeth clenched hard, grinding against one another, hands still gesticulating wildly as your fingers clench an invisible throat, tugging hard just for comfort.