Saturday, March 5
A dull pain in his stomach rumbled on, and a palid brown light stained the room, seeping into everything. He tried to push his thoughts together, but only heroic feats of concentration could prevent them from scattering away. Surroundings became mildly annoying; the wash of voices drifting over from the other end of the room, the bland tontopop filtering out of the TV in the corner.
His mind skittered down meaningless side-paths, and he realised he had just spent the last five minutes staring at his fingernails. There was a small encrustation underneath one of them. They needed cutting.
Philip's life fell apart when he was hungry.