I stare at my medal collection and there's a gaping, lingering hole.
It's a void I fear will never be filled before that dreaded moment when I wear the red shirt for the last time.
Since I turned 30, the pain of having no title medal seems to have intensified. I can't even really argue we've come close to ending our Premier League drought.
It hurts more as you begin to appreciate time is as much a rival as the other top clubs.
I may only have the three years left on my current Liverpool contract to win the league and it will sicken me not to achieve it. I'm fixated by this goal, consumed by my determination to bring the title back to Anfield.
I don't just think about winning the title once a day, but sometimes as many as half a dozen times in an afternoon.
Winning the title has become Liverpool's obsession, but whereas the supporters have their lifetimes to realise the ambition, as a player I'm running out of opportunities.
Without wishing to sound negative, I've no choice but to prepare myself for the possibility it might not happen. If I never win a title, knowing the standards I've set myself, I suspect I'll consider my career a partial failure.