Eggs in the morning when not fighting a war.

Very very short

He laid back, his head forcefully resting on his winter pillow, and his mind buzzed. He hated artists, hated sentiment, hated ideas, hated pettiness.. he hated existence it seemed and hated most that his grievances made him seem sophomoric. He longed to have annoyances that made him seem burdened by it all, that made his soul seem so much primordial than a soul could be. He wanted to breath in the ancient smoke of the earth and exhale misunderstood brilliance. Such was the weight his ego carried.
He sat up, breathed in the air that was right in front of him, and exhaled a laugh. He didn’t really hate anything at all. And he had to stop thinking he did. He had beaten his ego and locked it away years ago, in his mercy he let it live. Perhaps now was the time to hold an execution. He shook his head at himself for thinking nearly this much about himself, laughed at the metaphors he crafted around himself, and let himself fall asleep. He woke the next day and had eggs.