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.