There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.

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.

I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.

A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.

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.

Then I thought, "No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.

It was sometime in October; she had long ago lost track of all the days and it really didn’t matter because one was like another and there were no nights to separate them because she never slept any more.