It doesn't matter. You are what you are. I am what I am. We are the same-when you take the time to remember me.

He cries. 'Please! I don't want to die.' I lean over. My hair smothers him. 'Then you should never have been born,' I say.

I wanted you to thank you for being my friend and letting me play a part in your story.

You think sex is dirty. You have a dirty mind.

I would look up at the moon and see that it was not the smooth orb we had all believed, but a pitted and scarred world with no air.

Why am I talking about all this? Who am I talking to? I send out these words, these thoughts, simply because it is time. Time for what, I do not know and it does not matter because it is what I want and that is always reason enough for me.

We all die. It's just a question of when and how horrible it's going to be.