The door wasn't locked, of course. Why would it be? Only things with clear goals and purpose bother with security. The air inside smelled like damp regret and old plaster dust, exactly the aroma of a poorly executed plan. I stepped inside, grateful to be out of the rain, but already irritated by the structural incompetence.

The silence was broken only by a relentless sound—a faucet dripping somewhere, hitting a rusty basin with an infuriating, monotonous plink... plink... plink. It was the sound of a time management system that had completely failed, stressing me out just by existing. I ran my hand over a peeling wall. The feel was gritty and cold, like a relationship with a rigid traditionalist—unyielding and deeply unsatisfying.

I found a spot near a window, squinting past the filth to see the street. The grime on the glass warped the world, turning simple houses into vague, dynamic adventurers. My mind noted the irony: even a broken window processes reality through a lens, just like I do with people.

Finally, I pulled out a slightly stale energy bar. It tasted mostly of cardboard and a faint metallic tang, a flavor I recognized instantly: the taste of overcommitment and the resulting burnout. This whole abandoned place was a metaphor for spreading myself too thin. It was a failure of structure, a visual representation of the stress I was trying to outrun.

I sank down, not defeated, but simply waiting. This temporary lack of structure was annoying, yes, but at least I wasn't running anymore. I'll take the shelter, but I'm not buying the drama. I'm just regrouping. The world needs initiative, and I'm simply recharging before I go out and build something that actually stays standing.