It just seems like the world is heavy. That it is like a big cement monster that is crushing me, that is pummeling me with scorpion claws, stinging me, biting me alive, throwing bricks at my head, slamming cinder blocks on my nuts, eating me, showing me that I am worthless, that my life on this planet is a futile little pile of meat that ends in immobility, death, then sent underground with a shitty tombstone that doesn’t signify who I was, what I was about. It just states my name, year of birth and day of death. I don’t feel lucky at all to be alive.
— Noah Cicero, The Insurgent (2010)
