Fats is tired.

The stained glass windows in the church are the only colours in his heart.

[Inside he's fading away.]

::

Fats is tired.

He doesn't go to the funeral.

What point is there?

[He doesn't go to the funeral because he knows he won't make it through the opening hymn.]

::

Fats is tired.

He doesn't smoke anymore.

[Not after the poison in his lungs took away everything he cared for.]

::

Fats is tired.

Andrew is gone.

Gaia is going.

And he wishes he were to go too.

[If only to escape this hell his life has become.]

::

Fats is tired.

Pagford was always too small for him.

[But maybe now it's just a little too big.]

::

Fats is tired.

He doesn't want to play anymore.

[He was sick of playing a long time ago.]

::

Fats is tired.

He can feel it in his bones.

[They are brittle and used and ready to break.]

::

Fats is tired.

Life goes on as if Krystal never happened.

[Sometimes he wishes that were true.]

::

Fats is tired.

He dreams of the pitter-patter of Robbie's feet.

He hears a splash.

[He wakes up crying.]

::

Fats is tired.

His parents don't forgive him, though they try hard to.

[They never will.]

::

Fats is tired.

Once he thought the world was his oyster.

[That was before he slipped and cut himself open on its sharp, slick edge.]

::

Fats is tired.

People look at him differently.

They judge.

[He wants them to.]

::

Fats is tired.

The days blur together, a patchwork of maybes, wills and won'ts.

[Happiness is impossible.]

::

Fats is tired.

He's so fucking tired.

[He wishes he had never been born.]

::

Fats is tired.

[But that's okay, because he knows the end is coming soon.]