Yet another day. The light lurking trough your window lays a few golden strings over your naked body. Your bed lets out a squeaky sound as you change sides.

Do they never end? The sun goes down only to come out the next day. Why? It's not like it brings anything new or exciting with it. One after another, the days escape away trough your fingers. Each one as meaningless as the one preceding it.

You don't feel guilty about what you've become. Doing it isn't a problem for you. It's simple. As ordinary as spreading butter on a slice of bread or lighting a cigarette. You don't feel bad afterwards. Haven't for a while now. You wonder if you feel anything at all anymore. Guilt isn't the right word.

The first time was surprisingly easy. There wasn't anything dramatic or romantic about death. A fragment of a second, and that was it. It was more or less alike to what you had imagined. The border of an existence. It was savage, but not aggressive. It was calm, horrifyingly banal. There wasn't anything beautiful, poetic to it. It was natural.

The day when you took the life of a human being for the first time, you learned that there weren't any winners in life. Civilised (what a false word, you thought) humans are just as merciless and simple as animals in the wild. There are only losers, who mingle about and wonder for a brief moment, an insignificant fragment of an eternity, and then are no more. A Darwinian nightmare. But at least you acknowledge it. You guess it's better than nothing.

You have a hangover. You stand up and notice that your head feels like it's full of air. Your teeth are dirty and it feels like something is pounding behind your eyes. You stagger and sit down at the border of your big brass bed. Not all of the booze has burned away yet. God, why is it, that from anything good always something bad comes up. Laws of the universe. Like a bad joke.