I remember pulling out that brownish-orange translucent bottle each morning, and picking out a large blood-red tablet.

I resisted the urge to take a razor blade and chop it into powder. Could I sift through the bits and pieces and find what exactly gives happiness in there? Could I make this synthetic happiness on my own, perhaps by tricking my brain in some way?

I stared into the mirror when I popped a pill, to see the change that never came.

Each morning, I walked out the door, wondering why I paid money for what people normally had.

I still have the bottle of concentrated contentment past the expiration date.

Is it time for a refill?