The impersonal computer screen is my awaiting audience, afraid to show expectations. Whirring fingers fly across dirty keys; it's all dirty. Dirty and old. Life is dirty, I'm dirty. Correction: I'm a mess. Failure follows me like a nightmare. I think I wake up each morning full of new hope, only to realize that I'm living in a dream. You can't control your dreams. Can you control life? Or is so very much out of our control that to claim otherwise would be preposterous at best and arrogant at worst.

My being, though not soul, no, never soul, is peppered with failure. It is in every crack of my body, seeping in through a point of weakness and poisoning the whole. This negativity, unmedicated, pervasive doubt is threatening to make me explode. Funny, sick, I just need to disappear. Melodramatic? Maybe. Where's a good closet when you need it? Where are good -make-me-forget-how-to-breathe- drugs now? I'm too scared to even go off and smoke on my own. Houses. Made for that shit.

Gluttony. All. Mine. Now. Make me sick, make me clean again. So good coming down, ever better going off.