I start to shrink from any form of outside stimulus. A dull, stabbing ache sets n behind my left eye. The world around me loses focus, not because my eyes aren't functioning properly, but because I haven't the strength to take in my surroundings. What little energy I have left seems to drip slowly out of my body, like a maple tree being sapped. I am nowhere near sleepy enough to drift off, but not awake enough to function, either. I sit in a perpetual half-life, waiting in a purgatorial state for SOMEthing. Hamlet chose between being and not being; I would be content with either, just to escape this monotony. Life offers new experiences around each bend, while Hamlet's proverbial sleep offers dreams, which surely cannot be any worse than this static image that faces me.