Dear Nobody,

I am close to collapse. Hardly mysterious as to the reasons, but I tend to have a kind of selective amnesia regarding the consequences.

This... is... not a cry for help.

Let me stress this point. This is not a cry for help. You are but a muse, and this is merely a vehicle for expression.

This means nothing. That is something else you have to understand. This means nothing. You will take what you will of it, but no meaning is intended, and this should not be used when considering the character of the author. The author is stagnating. I am starving and suffocating. I'm swimming against the tide and still hanging in there. I will never drown. Instead, I will live in a perpetual state of drowning. No absolution; no sweet, tragic finality. I am and will continue to be, until the unremarkable end, quietly desperate. Sobriety is lacking; intoxication comes from everything I touch. The author is too passionate about everything to decide on anything.

And so it shall remain.

No reply can suffice... you must ignore me. It means nothing. You can never understand the depth of such a character. I strongly encourage you to sever ties. The only misery I feed off is my own. I need abuse. Without it I would wither and die. If the tide changed I would be everything I could be, and that is when I would cease to be. With nothing to fight, I have no excuse not to be victorious. With no potential left to fulfill I would be useless. Survival is my only friend.

This stagnation is on a sliding scale that approaches minus infinity. There is no conceivable limit to depravity. When it is reached, there is nowhere to go but up, and this is contrary to the aims of the organism tapping away at these keys that pretend to be the slaves of these fingers. I am their slave; their will becomes me; they speak through me.

Perfect desolation is my aim. Staring down the hole, I realise that freefall is not as easy as it looks. But damnation and hellfire on anyone who didn't think I could sink so low. I will make it to the bottom of the well of vitality and drink from the fountain of decay. Gravity, be my friend.

Jettison your hope, Guardian Angel, it weighs you down. I have tasted growth; I spat it out upon my plate. I respect your wish to progress, and I will wave to you as we cross on our one-dimensional journeys. Fly on; do not linger in purgatory too long; discard your birthday suit of benevolence. It, too, weighs you down. Fly up, and up. Don't look down. Keep going. You're almost there. I could have been right there beside you. You could have been right here beside me. However, all used and beaten up as I am, I wouldn't be much of a travelling partner. I will catch your hope as it falls. It will help me reach my destination faster. I hope.

Spiralling in.