Here I am, desperate to reach out a hand to whoever will take pity; but don't I know why I am down here in the first place? There's no shame in admitting it: it is only a misguided sense of duty that makes me seek out other people, an indoctrination that that is how a member of my race ought to behave. But truer to my thoughts, I would survey this blighted world through one pair of eyes, watching as all I fear and loathe is celebrated, and as the meager remains of what once I held sacred are crushed to the ground.

Monday afternoon, 3pm, and I am crushed by the clarity of the truth that you are forever lost to me.

The self: the subject which I have spent my life in study of, to no one's benefit.

 I am not my work
 Nor many things more;
 So words that seek to hurt
 Only serve to bore.

To write, and provide clear insight into one's mind, one has to be free of certain notions. One of them is that words can change the world as it is seen, if not Felt. It may all seem a glorious tragedy sometimes. But in fact, I think it all the better that the world is left as it is, or even gets worse as words flow from the pen. A fitting gift to the boors who inhabit this planet, those who don't offer the slightest suggestion that they are aware of there being someone else who shares space with them.