I want to rip the passion from your lungs. I like it when you make me feel like nothing because it makes me want to scream ten times louder.

The pain is part of the gift. The gift is a timebomb and any day we will be crushed in the rubble of its aftermath.

I hate her for not being honest with me.

The voices in my head are getting louder. They are starting to converse with one another. They are starting to form bonds, relationships, unions and cults. I am not afraid because I know it can only make us stronger. I know that it is healthy interaction.

Your dreams shatter because you keep waking up. Don't wake up--it can only make you unhappy. You are alone but you do not have to be if you learn to sleep perpetually. We do not mean meditation. Meditation is useless. Meditation killed Plato. Do you want to die like Plato? Hemlock?

She was the only one you ever wanted to kill. So why did it feel so empty when you strangled her? Why did it feel like someone else when you took a rope, put it around your neck and lunged from the tree?

There are questions that have not been answered. There are clues that were never delivered, but it seems irrelevant now.

I hate you. I want to rip your skin off and throw it off of the balcony and on to the street.