Deeply depressed. Not the intense torment of suicidal despair, but more of a dull, aching malaise draining the color and flavor from life. The slow roast, rather than the high, charring flame.
What joy I have known in my life is gone, those small triumphs and too brief romances all behind me. The future looks bleak and hollow: an endless, lonely afternoon, fading ever into night. What once was sweet has soured, the savory turned bitter with age, and all is as dust and ash in my mouth.
The slow roast: turning and turning on my spit, hour after hour, day after day, over and over without end. Am I done yet? I wish I knew how to tell.