Return to pseudo-productivity. What else is there in store for the boy with a thorn on his side? Not particularly sure if prepared, but he will take it head on, reckoning even at this early stage that this week would rather be bumpy and perilous, and not too sure why, but surely will be able to manage as usual.
Dark, darker, darkest, there is no difference. All hurts the same. Pain, everlasting, lingering. Pain, day and night. The hours are uncertain. Anything can happen now. Thinking about it hurts. Truth is unreliable. The romance is dead. My heart, it is lost. Unrecoverable, hateful, distrusting. Wishful, perhaps, but I have lost everything before and survived still. This one was special. So special. Embittered, the tip of my tongue tastes. The flavour of my life. Cuisine of kitchens unwanted. It burns, to the heart. I do not understand. I do not understand.