I couldn't run away if I wanted to

I'm standing in front of a door, watching patiently as my breath becomes steam and my heart goes one more beat to stopping. A hundred different people could open that door and the answer would still be the same, "No, I can't." My sense of urgency goes unfulfilled, I can't think of anywhere different that would give me the satisfaction of good hard industry and the result of something gained, something worthwhile. I'm sitting here, right where death can find me and I'm surrounded by self-satisfying sympathy. I don't feel alive anymore, yet I taste and smell the tale-tell gluttony of preservation, of living. I'm trying really hard at nothing much at all, putting off the inevitable disappointment of things to come. Too tired to hope, too aware to dream.