Mr.Tropgar had nothing to his name; even the clothes on his back were dingy rags, soiled beyond repair. A mix of yellow stains on the white fabric of his shirt that loosely hung over his emaciated flesh. Every day, he would slowly tighten his belt, pulling the thin braided fiber around his waist, barely hanging on as it aged in the acidic air of the Hallows. The same air that burned the rear of his throat and drained his eyes of hope. His eyes all but protruded from his skeletal-like face, the white of those eyes replaced with a thick matte yellow. A constant shiver ran through his spine as his vertebrae protruded beneath his cracking skin. Nothing about him would scream anything save wretch.

The bread, a stale and near rancid loaf of something I only begged that the world hadn't spoiled yet with its overwhelmingly present mold and disease. Such a precious sustenance segment is desiccated and needs delicate handling to prevent desquamation. Half a sausage, bound in soiled newsprint, maggot excavations, but the maggots all now vacant as I had plucked out and feverishly devoured while laying under the demolished bridge that resides in the sludge manifested by this world's tyranny. The remainder went to my younger siblings; they were in a constant state of malnourishment. They would cry and plead for anything to the point where even a stranger's words could sate their hunger just for a moment, and those moments were few and far between. Today, though, I acquired enough to fill their growing and growling bellies with enough sustenance to last until lunch tomorrow, though this all depends on whether or not I make it home. One never knew anymore since only a handful of people had occupations, and everyone else was left to purchase minuscule-infested morsels at unrealistically immoral prices, thus making nearly everyone devastatingly penurious.

Boredom consumes me, an all-encompassing reality that I live in. I stalk excitement, enthralling myself in ventures while basking in monotony. Even an ounce of thrill has exponentially more worth than infinite comfort from this mundane existence. Yes, I possess a wife; she pleases and sustains me in ways I could write eons worth of content. Yet, boredom persists. Searing past my false smile, a faux joy illuminates my gaze. To be wealthy beyond recognition, trillions mean nothing, while I am consumed by nothing.

            Research, implementation, invention, and war. I have possessed and done them all, yet boredom, like a wall, prevents my passing. Though I know this shall pass, a wavering of the soul, an obstacle to enslave. Shall I enslave the world before my boredom ends, only to free it, like some Munchausen worm? Though I feel the squirming desire to engender such a reality.