Shelving life, like my seven thousand books, not wanting to come close to them, not wanting to feel the anxiety of death looming near.
Yet, wanting to succumb to it's devastating grasp.
Sliding further into haunted messages of yesterday, knowing they will fill me with their distraught thoughts and leave me wallowing in a quandary of emptiness.
Sorrow pushing me further into pits of hell where I will no longer be able to get out.
Finding no reprieve, no satisfaction entering my level of intellect, sending me into a deepening and intense misery.