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I'm tired, I'd like to leave this place. But I couldn't leave without burning it down. I can't allow any evidence to get caught up in the wind, to flutter by finding me unprepared.
I can feel my flesh rotting. The heavy heat of its stench lies lazily in the air. I've stained the encircling area. it spreads out around me and eats at the ground. Soon it will tear through the floorboards and I will fall right down. My body tunnels the way before and buries a neat little hole for me to rest in.
My gaze changes so rarely you'd think I was already dead. I've beaten back my spirit with so many recriminations. Blaming myself for the failures, the cowardice, the denials of life commited. Impossible to stop this discourse of hoplessness. Now my heart is tangled in nostalgia, pictures of innocence, hope and music, and threads of consequence. Now I understand the paths that my actions have led me to. I see my friends on the sidelines, weeping and pleading. . . . .