You gaze at your computer screen, looking for something to do that won't trigger some form of anxiety in relation to your responsibilities. Nothing but empty spectacle it seems, the most beautiful things on the planet reduced to an advanced array of lights.
You read an article, find it rather interesting, but know in the back of your head that you won't retain half of the information contained in it.
Was there anything really interesting left? How did you get here? Has novelty truly died now that you have reached that age where you start to realize that you are no longer new? No longer a seed of potential with the world at your finger tips?

You try and see if there is anyone awake to talk to, anyone that can prevent you from diving into the maelstrom of existential dread with only your own mind to consort with.
But it's 3am, nobody is coming to your aid. You switch off your monitor and climb into your sheets, maybe if you fall asleep quickly enough the thoughts will go away.
They don't, instead they follow you into the deep pit of sleep and cast themselves as characters in a play where the stage is infinite in all directions. Inescapable and self-inflicted.
An apparition reaches from the abyss of the subconscious ready to strike you down, its form obscured as to not drive you an inch further toward madness.
Suddenly you awaken to the morning sun, leaping from your bed you gaze upon the sky that is both marmalade and pink. You begin to cry.