Two months off

My hair is wet as I step out in the bathroom.
My body is damp.
Goosebumps begin to speckel my skin.
But I don't feel the cold. It doesn't seem to bother me.
My body is hard and the skin is insensitive. Thats what I've been molded into.
A machine.
No.
Less.
A gear, a cog.
After two months off of philosophy I've come to the realization that I no longer have a will. I no longer yearn or strive. Only execute. My hand is guided not by my own thirst for wine, but instead a hunger for bread. Necissity. Luxary is lost to me. Philosophy is luxary. All I ever want to do now is complete the mission, rack in the cash, the measly dollars to contine to exist. Mission accoplished. Move on. Next mission. The thing is, I don't know what the mission is. Not anymore.
I need.
I no longer want.
Philosophy has left me.
Only realism remains.
One the horizon one no longer sees flares of the torch inside me, burning bright. Only a cold dark shadow, searching for warmth.
The Iceman cometh.
Hungary.
His heart Cold.
Two months off ends not as a vacation, but as a long days work.