my shelf is a melancholic creature. nights and days he's been bothered by the same realization. it bothered him like a sharp pebble in the shoe. it bothered him to the point that one day he suddenly started complaining when i was scouring an english-version <memories of my melancholic whores> on his skeleton.
'girl,' he went, 'what is the meaning of my life if all I ever did is storing your stuffs?'
'dude,' i went, 'we human beings kind of have the same problem.'