I feel like cotton candy: sugar and air. Squeeze me and I’d turn into a small sickly damp wad of weeping pinky-red.

To live in prison is to live without mirrors. To live without mirrors is to live without the self.

Winning intoxicates you, and numbs you to the sufferings of others.

More and more I feel like a letter—deposited here, collected there. But a letter addressed to no one.

But some people can't tell where it hurts. They can't calm down. They can't ever stop howling.

What is it the I'll want from you? Not love: that would be too much to ask. Not forgiveness, which isn't yours to bestow. Only a listener, perhaps; only someone who will see me. Don't prettify me though, whatever else you do: I have no wish to be a decorated skull. But I leave myself in your hands. What choice do I have? By the time you read this last page, that- if anywhere- is the only place I will be.

Potential has a shelf life.