Life might just be an absurd, even crude, chain of events and nothing more.

But if you peeled away the ornamental egos that she had built, there was only an abyss of nothingness and the intense thirst that came with it.

Instead of things I'm good at, it might be faster to list the things I can't do. I can't cook or clean the house. My room's a mess, and I'm always losing things. I love music, but I can't sing a note. I'm clumsy and can barely sew a stitch. My sense of direction is the pits, and I can't tell left from right half the time. When I get angry, I tend to break things. Plates and pencils, alarm clocks. Later on I regret it, but at the time I can't help myself. I have no money in the bank. I'm bashful for no reason, and I have hardly any friends to speak of.

He does not exist here, with me, but flesh that does not exist will never die, and promises unmade are never broken.

No matter how long you stand there examining yourself naked before a mirror, you'll never see reflected what's inside.

A state of chronic powerlessness eats away at a person

Whatever can't be expressed might as well not exist.