...if You're Alone Nothing Bad

But... What About Us? What About The Past?" She Asks Blankly. "the Past Isn't Real. It's Just A Dream," I Say. "don't Mention The Past.

The Images I Had Were Of People Being Driven Mad By Living In The City. Images Of Parents Who Were So Hungry And Unfulfilled That They Ate Their Own Children.

There Are No More Barriers To Cross. All I Have In Common With The Uncontrollable And The Insane, The Vicious And The Evil, All The Mayhem I Have Caused And My Utter Indifference Toward It I Have Now Surpassed. My Pain Is Constant And Sharp And I Do Not Hope For A Better World For Anyone, In Fact I Want My Pain To Be Inflicted On Others. I Want No One To Escape, But Even After Admitting This There Is No Catharsis, My Punishment Continues To Elude Me And I Gain No Deeper Knowledge Of Myself; No New Knowledge Can Be Extracted From My Telling. This Confession Has Meant Nothing.

Our Lives Are Not All Interconnected. That Theory Is A Crock. Some People Truly Do Not Need To Be Here.

I Write Books To Relieve ­myself Of Pain. That's The Prime Motivator To Write. Period.