Sisyphus might be on to something

I am carrying this great cube of sorrow with a detailed list of just how exactly everything went from shit to fuck in under three hours.

When I meet someone I need to show them the cube, show them the texture of it, let them feel the weight and strip off my clothes so they can see where its pointed edges have shredded my flesh. The cube defines me. Without the cube I am nothing but blasted fractals and the memory of what once was, still I think Sisyphus might be on to something cause its keeping me really busy.

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