The reservoir is dry, the fuel is spent. I'm a vessel leaking resources, with no pipeline to refill. The landscape is barren, the scenery unchanged. I'm searching for a patch of quiet, a spot to let the weeds grow, but the terrain is treacherous, and the map is outdated.
The exchange rate is unfavorable, the currency devalued. I'm overdrawn, with no safety net to catch the fall. The weight of expectations presses down, a geological force that threatens to crush the bedrock. I'm a fragile thread, stretched to the breaking point, with no knot to secure the ends.
In this desolate terrain, I'm a wanderer, searching for an oasis that may not exist. The compass needle spins wildly, unable to find true north. The only sound is the rustling of dry leaves, a reminder of what's been lost.