Half an hour, I've been staring at this little screen, making words appear, trying to put some spin, something poetic into works, make my journal pretty.

It's all so fucking fake, though. It's all for the world, not for myself.


Listen: I am living a very real, very slow disintegration. It is only because I want so much to see it to the finish, that I am able to hang on, and keep myself from falling until the very end.