The images are visual, auditory, olfactory, kinesthetic. They aren't laid down on the same tracks as thought. And sometimes, when they return to you, it is as if you feel them for the very first time. Memory lives on in the details, like the color of a room, a tone of a voice, the touch of a child, the smell of a man.

Some struggles are so solitary that they drown in words.

The infinity of this vacancy, the pervasive pain, the longing for some spirit, some lightness, some joy - that's all that is left.

Sometimes hell has no words.

In these flashes of insight, I understand for a moment that one of the great dividends of darkness is an increased sensitivity to the light.

Psychologists call it "free-floating" anxiety. What contradictory words. Anxiety doesn't free-float. It stalks. It attacks. It lands on you with a thud.

The bottom line is that my life has already almost slipped away from me. I have two choices: I can end it or I can fight like hell to save it.