Squinting never helped him much. It was either open, or closed. Floating between
consciousnesses was a
bane to his existence all in and of its own. Rolling over with whatever energy he could muster felt like it would do more harm than good, more pain than pleasure, more reminiscent of long darkness rather forgotten by now.
Parting never helped him much. Though convinced his own
mortality was significantly lengthened with each decisive loss; no truth would ever back it. He’d stand there time after time assuming to a level of futile hope that this would be the
Band-Aid he sought out. Shaking out what he did not need. Despising each little bit. With one fluid, nearly
transcendent motion, he watched it flow away. Felt it leave this place.
Washing never helped him much. Though every
dignified practitioner of modern, and even ancient medicines would agree, his
ego was the only thing satiated by the action.
Microbes were irrelevant. Breathing was nearing it, approaching nil value.
Preparing never helped him much. Whether the finest garments from Egypt or the most worthless rags of the nearest dumpster, value was extraneous. He was a man of repetition and a servant of the
mundane. Composition was
superfluous. It was simply the act of protection, the act of preparation, and the act of acting that mattered.
Leaving never helped him much. Each tick of every second was nothing more than a pleasant wash away from the current to his promised
push off this mortal coil. He yearned for it. He quested for it. He desired it with every fiber of his pathetic being.
Existing never helped him much. But what did he expect?
He never helped him much either.