Clutching the burgundy bed post and struggling to remove his wooden arms from his enveloping mattress, he tried to unravel himself. He was taking a risk but at this time in the day and in his life such a risk may only be a wise investment. Placing his stubby hardened feet on the polished mahogany floor, he finally managed to form a significantly faulty sense of inertia whilst taking in his overwhelmingly lavish surroundings created in the name of his bedroom to indulge a rococo aesthetic. However, indifferent he was to such luxury that was initially fed to him as part of becoming  accustomed to the lineage he was born to. Yet as time unraveled the curtains to serpentine pathways of moral darkness the boon of inheritance became a beastly bane causing him to feel saturated and exhausted of the superficiality he was born into and perhaps even accustomed to.

No stranger to loneliness was George.  Whilst an unassuming common man victim to inevitable pangs of jealousy when faced with the supposed easiness an heir's life entailed would feel such envious emotions, staring into George's eyes greater compassion would drown in the abyss of helplessness they mirrored. Spotting his trustworthy burgundy silk robe sleeping on the floor George stooped and picked it up. Behaving as if the door was the burden of his vacant life his fingers wrangled the knob. All in vain. Or not. The door, by the blessing of some higher power whose goodness George was yet to wholly experience, survived his assault and opened to widen the physical space in which his seemingly meaningless self could roam. Yet his mental state remained inflated with numerous possibilities of some sort of industrious activity he could lend himself to appearing like boughs contorted out of shape offering some sort of hope obstructing his otherwise vacant journey. Nevertheless contemplating the pursuit of any kind of laborious activity immediately turned the brute of not knowing how to pass his time to the brutish activity of work which would seize the vain yet necessary luxury of time from him.

Ambling down the grey stairs of his own residence (what should in theory represent the barometer of comfort and security but in reality was just a dormant hub encouraging an idle mind like George's to entertain itself with anxiety evoking unwanted thoughts) he placed his ever expanding carcass on the jewel toned chair at the head of his sparingly used dining table.
Upon spotting his butler, Tom, a surge of irritation erupted in George. "How are you today sir?" came Tom's daily initiation at some sort of sane conversation. A surge of irritation erupted inside of George owing to his strong unwillingness to navigate through a social labyrinth of nonsense that includes sharing details of his habitual and social activities which were not only lacking but also non existent. Due to the very building blocks for any sort of social conventional activity by means of conversation to take place being missing the silence of awkwardness was audible. Tom, understanding his master's lack of response to be due to recovering from his nightly and now even daily drinking obediently turned away. Seizing a moment to observe his butler's behaviour, an epiphany of sorts struck George as he found himself gazing into a somewhat similar state of sorry to his own. Short and stubby, grotesque and greedy, lonely and longing were all common adjectives associated with George however his most unknown characteristic was that of vestigial empathy which unfortunately had not been felt in a long time due to the simple lack of people who could evoke it. Whilst distance may make the heart grow fonder in a common proverb in George's case the one constant and grounding factor in the pretentious circus he had been born into was his relaible butler. Forgiving for his ways and unvocal to George's indulgence in sempiternal self pity and debauchery Tom was never an obstruction to George's desires. Husky, having not quite sobered properly, a feeble yet well intentioned response was finally drawn out from George-"I'm the same as yesterday". Though seemingly patronising this response was well within his constricted comfort zone of not divulging into too many details of his mood. Having grown up in a facade where the unreal was real and the real was apparently unreal revealing any sort of sense of truth no matter how small was a precious rarity to George which he would only share with a companion who had not yet been found. A pang of longing struck him. Anxious, he frantically searched for his dependable bottle of Johnny Walker which was surreptitiously never more than a convenient arm's length away.

Grappling with the arduous task of trekking up the challenging terrain that comprised a staircase and a few feet, George was destined to eventually reach and as usual be confined to the oasis of nothingness that his bedroom essentially was. A haven for promiscuous activities and excitement as the bedroom was initially designed to be had been wasted to an immeasurable extent as purportedly mass space was all that a man full of mass needed. When exhaustion broke the barrier of saturation to extreme inflation George's state of mind transitioned into another self destructive state made up of a desire to wallow in his loneliness as self pity is therapeutic for an idle mind. Having climbed into his bed and closed his tired eyes George was transported into the darkened zen like state he was confined to nightly; when the miscegenation of a lack of momentum and  depletion of adrenaline the depressing reality of loneliness gradually becomes covered and overwhelmed with the shroud of a nightmare one cannot escape.