But don't you hate it? Don't you hate how it aches and aches, how you want nothing more to do than to simply lie on your hard-springed mattress and think, “What the hell am I doing? Why am I so dead inside?” And you lie there, so still I shriek when I come home in the dark and see something as quiet and unobtrusive as a corpse sprawled, not on the bed, but on the floor. Your eyes are open, and I can see your chest rise reluctantly with every breath, but you really are a corpse. You're just trapped inside still.