“Procrastination is killing me,” he thought. “Not like a disease or a physical catastrophe, but in the time it robs my life of value while I stay alive.” The missing pieces from childhood coming together in a revelation of tragedy and failure, and the cold hard fact that he was not meant to be. The engine is broken. It’s up to the patient, now, there’s nothing left for us to do. The search for meaning to justify a movement, in any direction, stuck at the greasy table sharing fries with a mocking reflection, in agreement with the forecast of self-doom.
“I need some fresh air”, he said, and walked out.