"...As the truth hits your ears begin to cry
"Why is it like this!" Why the fuck do I care?
I don't have the answers, or at least the ones you want to hear...
Don't get worried now (We've been in a cold world!)
We just getting flurries now?..."
"Bent Life" by Aesop Rock

The other night I remembered a thought that I had a few years ago. It was an image of a man who digs a hole in his living room. And he digs more and more every day. Then one day he shoots his dog, because he doesn't want his dog to fall in and die. And he just keeps on digging.
It's not much of a story, but I've thought about it over and over, and I still can't figure out how to present it. Maybe as a poem? Or maybe as a short-story, or a one-act? I'm not sure.

(I don't know who this image is by or where it came from, but it emotes what I've been feeling lately.)