Dead Poet's Asylum. I feel so alone. The voices don't comfort me like they used to. I had some pride, but I threw it into the ocean and now I just drive hoping to find meaning. Meaning is meaningless. Or an illusion. I can't quite make the distinction, but it's weighing heavily on my soul.

I don't want to hear the excuses, but they are everywhere--so why can't I get anywhere? The street was alone, just me . . . and I know you're sick of hearing about the voices, but they were there too. They told me to drive back and strangle your self-confidence while you were sleeping. I got half of it right.

I've got these scars from all the battles we've had. There are definitely disadvantages to fighting a memory, but I think I'm winning . . . some days. You are an ideal. I've said it before but I need to keep convincing myself that I am right. I've got a few bits of sanity I want to call my own, bottle up and ship out to sea--so that they can fight valiantly into the next life.

Jack--I hate the fact that I never got to kill you.

I've got this addiction to addiction. I've got this affliction with diction. I'm trying to freestyle but all I ever get is ghosts, panic and dead ideals. Feelings are all that are guiding me--but I think I'm losing. I think you should have checked me in and denied me three times. "Jealousy," said the dead poet.

If I keep bleeding like this I'll float away, touch the sun and explode.