Unfinished thoughts

The same chipped paint. Different location, same room. The one I'd always sat my back against it's wall, staring up at the ceiling, noticing how "Real" everything looks. No fake wood paneling this time, but the same stained, off-white ceiling. It always comes down to this. Here I am, sitting here on my bed, alone, always alone. The same bittersweet suffering. Different day, same pain. My pupils always constrict in this mood. They get so small I can hardly see. What I can see though is the more things change, the more they stay the same. Always in a box. Alone in a box, live in a box, die in a box, buried in a box. I'll just lay here, hungry and rotting.