The days are so long, so cold, so weary. On these days I am silent, a mere gust of wind blowing through. My wool keeps me warm, but the cold bitter ice still creeps in on me. I'm moving so slowly lately it's making me sick. All I've been lately is a quiet sheep unaware of the things going on around me.
I can't come to think what brought this on. It's like a glass wall has built a cave around me. I'm not able to get out but I can see through. Everything is foggy in my eyes, I can't seem to see what the truth is behind things anymore. All I do is sleep in this stupor, sometimes I wish I could sleep for days; that's the only place I have peace.

I hurt inside all the time. The cries of my broken heart never stop. I will always be this; nothing can turn my broken self whole again. My days will continue to be blurry until the ends of time itself. I will always sleep in this stupor of a quiet sheep.