Apathy wakes up in the morning and pulls on a frayed sweatshirt and jeans that have seen better days, knowing that much they have in common

Then she pauses and wonders why she even bothered to go that far

She remembers herself, Apathy does, before she changed her name, studies the torn scar on her sleeve where her heart once resided

Apathy pulls disinterestedly at a stray thread that once held passion together, once secured the bruised heart that now beats which a sluggish limp in Apathy's hollow, hollow chest

Apathy is Apathy, and she cares not one way or the other

For look at all the good it did her being someone else

Someone Else, who cared

And look at the regretful whisper that is her muted heart

Or don't

Then Apathy says nothing because Apathy feels nothing

Blissful Apathy.