Personality Crisis

He was sick of it.

Completely fed up with every goddamn thing he could think of and too tired to do anything about it except feel exhausted and disgusted.

An image of a boy in ragged clothes standing on the sunbaked dirt of some far-flung locale filled his head. This version of himself is a pickpocket, scanning the busy market for distracted shoppers as they haggle over the price of persimmons and plantains; his youthful doppelganger slips through the crowd with ease, lifting wallets and pocketbooks and disappearing back into the throng without the slightest notice. Being a vagabond thief holds a certain romantic appeal and Eugene smiled at the idea as the daydream faded away.

He also wondered, not for the first time, if there might be something seriously wrong with him.