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I wake up again. Five-thirty in the morning, par for the course at this point. I check to see if my dog is awake, and chuckle as she moans when I enter the room. I decide to let her rest as I head off take a shower. I throw on some clothes, and head to work again with my dog in tow. She settles into the office as always, practically our department mascot at this point. I like that she makes a difference. I sit down to begin work, finish my days allotment within the next two hours, and begin writing in my notebook. Poetry, today. It is a good day for it, with sun showers pattering against my office window. After a few hours, I work out how much I've made for the day and decide it to be enough, based on no particular criteria. I walk home again, dog in tow, and with a sigh of relief I open the front door. My shoes hit the wall and I'm on the couch by the time they've reached the floor. I stare at the ceiling for a bit, thinking about what my house would look like with someone else living there. It leaves me feeling empty and alone. I wonder what it feels like to be in love. To be loved. To have someone care about you. It hurts. I hurt. Every day, it never ends, I hurt and bleed within for none to see. Maybe if they saw, I wouldn't be alone. Maybe someone would take pity. Maybe I could be happy.
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He woke up early again. I worry about him at times. I know he likes doing it, but it seems uncomfortable. He checks on his dog, the one thing he seems to care about, and takes a shower. He comes out of the room. He hasn't washed his hair again. That's the third day in a row. He also hasn't shaved. I worry about him yet further, but he seems okay with it. His dog follows him out, and I do as well, though he doesn't know it. He settles into his desk and begins work. He's fast, but the job is slow and meticulous, and by the time he is done, lunch has yet to begin. He begins writing again. Again and again. He tears through pages, keeping nothing. I worry about him. When he dies it will be like he was never here. I'd know, but who else? Would anyone cry? I wish I could be there, but I know well it can't be so. He gets up around three and heads out, wishing the owner well. I don't think it's genuine, but with his hours it's definitely best to stay on her good side. He comes home, and I watch as he throws his shoes at the wall. Is he angry? Upset? Suddenly it seems everything is drained from him. I wish he could talk. Just to say something to me, though I know he can't. He needs to leave. I've tried to tell him but I am simply unable. I watch helplessly as he chokes up. I can feel the cold of the room, as it fills and pierces. Why won't he stop? Why won't he go outside? What makes him be alone, what am I missing? It makes no sense. Please, just be happy. I need you to be happy again. Please. I miss you.
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