I Am Not The We Of Anyone

But The Truth, He Knows, Is Otherwise. His Pleasure In Living Has Been Snuffed Out. Like A Leaf On A Stream, Like A Puffball On A Breeze, He Has Begun To Float Towards His End. He Sees It Quite Clearly, And It Fills Him With (the Word Will Not Go Away) Despair. The Blood Of Life Is Leaving His Body And Despair Is Taking Its Place, Despair That Is Like A Gas, Odourless, Tasteless, Without Nourishment. You Breathe It In, Your Limbs Relax, You Cease To Care, Even At The Moment When The Steel Touches Your Throat.

Pain Is Truth; All Else Is Subject To Doubt.

So It Has Come, The Day Of Testing. Without Warning, Without Fanfare, It Is Here, And He Is In The Middle Of It. In His Chest His Heart Hammers So Hard That It Too, In Its Dumb Way, Must Know. How Will They Stand Up To The Testing, He And His Heart?

When All Else Fails, Philosophize.

Perhaps; But I Am A Difficult Person To Live With. My Difficulty Consists In Not Wanting To Live With Other People.