All of his apartment grew dark, and Shinji somehow fell asleep with the book on his face. He didn't sleep peacefully, and he must have turned in his sleep, because he suddenly woke up at the sound of a crash. The collection of poems have fallen onto the floor, that was what awoke him. Cold and stiff, he rolled over, and sled off the sofa. He should most likely take a shower, and go to sleep...<br/><br/>Though, even after putting on a clean shirt, he didn't feel like sleeping. The rain was still pouring down from the sky... Like teardrops... And he stared at it from his balcony like a statue, not moving once. How awful the scenery that unfolded before his eyes was for his mind! Nothing but the destruction of beauty, endless fields of trash, of identical clones, a pale shadow of life, beauty and power. The lights lit up, but there was nothing for them to shine on. Nothing at all...<br/><br/>He failed to see a single spark of hope there. Even the wind that blew through the storm was moving just dead masses of stale air! So what was the point of continuing? Why was he forced over and over to get back onto his feet, pulled on strings by those with more power than himself? What was the point of doing that? Did someone yearn to watch his suffering so much?<br/><br/>What is the point of living when all that surrounds is death? It will take everything and no trace will remain after the life that was for the life that shall come! Shadows, shadows, shadows! They were all just a shallow illusion of purpose! Eat, sleep, breed, repeat! And of what use was he? Just a broken gear that would never be able to fall into the machinery of society... Not broken enough to be taken out, still intact enough to keep turning slowly... Can they not just let him choose his own path, even if it leads nowhere? Therapy, antidepressants, all was just prolonging his already chosen way to the abyss. And he'd face it, as if he really had a choice to decide between a sure darkness and a flickering light that would surely become just as dark. He couldn't hold onto hope that he could not see with his eyes and touch with his hands.<br/><br/>Two days after, he once again stood before the girl's door. It was cloudy, but not raining again, and he decided to bring her the paintings that she ordered - two pieces that he had already done - before meeting the psychologist he had to weekly talk to. However, he most likely looked better the first time, even. With an even paler face, obviously unkempt hair and bags under his eyes, he had the appearance of someone that neither slept, nor ate for a few days, what was also quite true. He was even less willing to stay, but he'd much rather stay than having to talk to that woman that he was forced to 'discuss his issues' with. He didn't want any discussions. He didn't want to exist.