I used to pray to recover you.

The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.

I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.

Pretty soon, the only doubt in my mind was the precise time and method of committing suicide. The only alternative I could see was an eternity of hell for the rest of my life in a mental hospital, and I was going to use my last ounce of free choice and choose a quick clean ending.

What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love?

The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.

A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.