I need a fix.  This is eating me up inside, so I'll throw up all over these pages and give my insides a rest.  They've been through enough.  I can see the darkness spread out across my desk.  Vulgarities never worth repeating unless you wished someone dead.  Hate and bitterness combined into a stew of sadness, self-pity, and a longing for something -- anything -- better.  

        This is hard.  Way too hard.  My dinner plate was overflowing with madness and hopefulness and a dream.  Now I'm throwing up the repercussions of my imagination running aimlessly wild.  This torrent of emotion broke my levies like twigs, mercilessly filling my brain with anything but logic, calm, and patience.  Instead I'm dealing with a swirling mess of fog, storms, lightning, hurricanes, tornadoes, tidal waves and earthquakes.  You're witnessing a natural disaster where there's only one individual involved who both dies and lives through it.  He mutates.  He's never the same.

       I haven't eaten in too long.  Lots to drink.  Lots of water.  Well hydrated, under-nourished, and full.  And something is missing.  I could turn around and start walking.  That is where the answer is.  Just turning around.  I still need to smile.  Turning around just makes me spin, otherwise.  I need to believe in turning around.  I need to believe in you again.  I need to believe that what we're doing is believable again.  Nothing you can say will make me believe it.  It's a waste of time.  I don't hear you, and I won't listen.  My body will just throw up again.  It knows it's sick and it needs to get better.  It's broken down, waiting for reconstruction.  

      This is not a self-help show; this is a cry-for-help show. I have built my castle out of webs and straw, and my throne is made of matches.  But my mind is made up.  I am through and I am scared.
 

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