P. was angsty.
I mean really angsty.
It could have been some serious teenage angst or something, maybe it was just a depression.
P. flipped through some stupid magazines, hating each of the grinning faces staring at him, all the meaninglessness in their eyes.
P. knew this feeling.
It was a pure nothing.
And this was all he had.
Nothing.
That felt dirty.
It felt bad.
I mean really bad.
His angst was back.


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