Sometimes I hate myself with such a depth I can hardly comprehend it.  I do not know where it ends or where it begins only that it is a part of everything like a limb it is a part of me.  Sometimes I forget the hatred is there - its not gone but I am accustomed to its presence.  I only feel it when it becomes more wild or desperate or painful than usual, like now.  Maybe its from the outside in or the inside out but it doesn't really matter in the end.

Sometimes I think I am not really meant to get along with other people, only listen.  Everyone has their own secrets.

I can't manage and I've always known I can't I cling to things but soon I'll be old and demented and what could be excused when I was young will become inexcusable I will be alone with cigarettes still only watching and listening to other people and holding in my sickness.