The neurotic gets out of bed. It´s raining. It´s always raining.
Goes downstairs, bottle of water, upstairs, bed.
A thin thread of water runs through the side of his mouth because of the position he´s in.
And that´s his life, he thinks, taking shit because of the position he mantains and complaining about it while, of course, not doing anything to remediate it because that would be too big a burden to bear. The weight of personal responsibility would surely crush him dared he try and get his life in order.
But that´s the life of the neurotic. He dreams, he plans, he seeks perfection in every last detail of his carefully engineered plot.
And then he waits.
For the plan to materialize.