The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.
Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.
I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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.
How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.