Thomas was an unfortunate man, well into his fifties with nothing to show for it. No job. No family. No tangible assets or visible proof that he had contributed to mankind in any way that actually counted or amounted to something. It was on the forty third day of his fifty seventh year that he came to these depressing conclusions about his lackluster existence.
"So this was an epiphany?" he thought. Weird. It didn't seem like an epiphany. He didn't feel the shifting of his soul or any of the visceral, primal sentiments they said he would feel during this kind of self realization. When people had epiphanies, Thomas believed that part of that notion was a feeling of accomplishment. Albeit false given his circumstances, but normally, he believed someone having an epiphany would feel a sense of triumph about their cognizance, if nothing else.
Nothing. He felt nothing. He was nearly numb from the idea that his contributions to his own life and the lives of others could be counted with only the tools it took to sing and depict the life of This Little Piggy. After all, that is what he was. Thomas knew himself to be a greedy pig, a man who still wanted to be a boy, and a boy who wanted desperately for people to think of him as a man.
Thomas was a fuck up. He thought briefly about that being both the subject and predicate of his epitaph but then he found it self deprecating and even for Thomas, even in his darkest hour, even he couldn't feel sorry for himself.
"Who was better off with me having been here?" he thought. No one. That was his answer. He could just as well slip away.
So that's exactly what Thomas did.
He slipped.
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