Diagram the illness. Be aware of what is wrong with you. Self medicate as frequently as possible. Write drafts to the Pope. Tell him you need help. That you feel displaced. Like you are here by accident. Or are you? Is this just a convenient delusion? You indeed feel like you have something to accomplish. But if you are confused how can you accomplish this feat? Indulging in fantasy worlds will not help you. You will not find anything through self denial.

Catch your death with a butterfly net.

Coming full circle--unable to sleep because of the voices in my head. Create until it kills and then create more until it kills again.

He fell into a hole so profound that it devoured his consciousness. He is an affliction now. He is contagious and he will never be the same again. To awaken him is wasted effort. Let him sleep his life away.

He paints the air with his pain; a pain brush it is called. He forcefully waves it in the air and the air bleeds, turning everything red, making everything one dimensional. Soon the whole world will be red with his pain and everyone will thank him for taking away what they never appreciated. Only when it is gone can they appreciate the color spectrum. They were blind and now they will never see again. "Thank you, boy with the magic wand" they cry as their tears wash over the earth but still it is all red with pain.

Pain does not forgive. The ability to heal is a myth constructed by the wounded.

Happiness is an unfortunate illusion.

Aging the stress that is gnawing the pain that she inflicted on his fragile ego. She damaged his vanity; he has never been the same since.

He is trembling from the sadness. He is trembling because he is himself again, something that he never thought he would be. He thought he had destroyed that person. He thought that he was cured, but he is not. He is doomed to a lifetime of unhappiness, a life time of anger . . . all things that he does not want.

Bliss turns sour.

She deflated his libido.

Thank you for shattering my illusions.

He drinks the filth that they sell him. He believes the pain that they inflict onto his paranoia. He soothes the pain with more pain, pain is all that he knows. The sadness that he feels is secondary; it is an effect of the pain. To diagram the pain would be useless. We know that the pain is there and that is all that we really need to know.

To exist is to hurt in order to not hurt. There are only extremes anything in between the two extremes is insanity, the color white or nauseau.

She collapses the caverns of my mind. She is fiction. To catch her is to catch a ghost. To catch her is to catch a lie. To catch her is to strangle the pain until the breath is gone and all that is left is silence echoing in a sobbing mind.

I cannot win battles that are fought against myself because I do not know what team I am on. Take me away. Take me into an alley and bury me thirty feet below it. I want to be erased in the sewers of the world.

She wept for me. It is always a he and a she, yet they can never be one because this too is a lie.

Dreams fly through the gutters of his mind collecting the damage that his dishonesty has built. His lies are his kingdom. His fantasies are his only salvation. His visions are his cocaine.

She disregards his existence. He is a void, a hole, an emptiness at the end of a long dark tunnel. He is a pointless journey.

She walks in and he loses consciousness.

She is not disintegrating. She is not vanishing the way he is. He must be strong.

Her scent travels miles poisoning cohesive minds.

She is disharmony and he likes it . . . he likes her for putting the world off balance with her beauty.

He is not a fish.

Coming here each morning is an a acceptance of death. By coming here I agree that life is not worth living, for how is this living? It is sustenance, but never living . . . it is death.