My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.

August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.

Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.

Sometimes I feel like I'm not solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.

All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.

I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have.

And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.