Gemotions

The landlord’s face was etched in his memory. The man's words, harsh and cold, still rang in his ears. He sat at the kitchen table, head in his hands, staring at the empty coffee mug in front of him. His appetite was gone. He was tired, so tired.

The apartment, once a sanctuary, now felt cold and desolate. The sun streamed through the window, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air, but the scene did nothing to lift his spirits. It was like living in a prison of his own making.

He closed his eyes and simply stayed put. He felt like he was wading through molasses, every movement slow, every thought laborious.