Perpetual Consolations

He possessed a mind given to certain inexplicable obssessions and the most extreme vanities. It wasn´t too problematic most of the time. When compared with what? The various plights he observed around him. He sat on the red chair with his glass of whisky and turned the light out, listening to the passing traffic. The blinds were drawn. The chess board was laid out, the pieces in disarray. An effervescent instance of something or other what, eh? His thoughts were becoming muddled again. He hoped the slow motion whispers wouldn´t return. They irked him. They disrupted his goddamn sleep! Certain consolations existed, these were to be sought out perpetually.
He had best hasten to the boudouir; his wife had summoned him with a complaint of feeling cold. But first he would consume his night cap with the intention of achieving some restful slumber. He was not given to rising early though. This feat held no... no... something or other, I mean it did not strike him as something admirable to do.
The gruesome perplexities of existence. Compared to what exactly? His face strained into a compulsive grin.

Reception

He had resolved not to do some certain thing anymore and then he had thought Heh, wait a minute, it doesn't really matter one way or another whether I do X, Y or fucking Z. And then he walloped himself on the side of the head with an open palm, something he was wont to do in those days when he became so completely disgusted by his own inconsistency and navel-gazing tendencies. Some pain, something, nothing much. A moment of vague excitement quickly replaced by the usual deflated laziness, a complete laziness regarding existence. Not even anything as violent or passionate as despair.