A fine excerpt

He remembered a date he'd had with Sally. He remembered telling her he was so calm it was akin to be being dead. Nothing bothers me, he'd said. And it was true, at the time. He remembered too telling her he didn't like coffee, that one cup kept him awake at night. That he didn't smoke, didn't like the taste or smell. I like to stay healthy, he'd said. He remembered the exact words. 

"And now," he muttered at his lean and worn reflection. Now he drank gallons of coffee a day. Until it sloshed like a black pool in his stomach and he couldn't sleep any more than he could fly. Now he smoked endless strings of finger-yellowing cigarettes until his throat felt raw and clogged, until he couldn't write in pencil because his hand shook so much. 

Mad House - Richard Matheson 

Demola, TCC