Sounds. Lots of them. Hope - a damned curse yet a relieving force. Bent on myself, bent for others. I've got nothing...drawing blanks. Empty deck of cards...I'm not even losing right. But that's it - I'm neither losing nor winning. It's the stand still that's a kill. I'm dreaming of a never-after, and I'm hoping for too much of nothing. But yet here I am...standing still. Standing here. Knowing nothing but myself. Sure of nothing but the forces that h ave brought me here. Remembering nothing but the experiences that shaped my present being. No, no longer is there pain - but there lies an echo, and we are creatures of habit. MY habit is continuous - this is all I know. A lack of acquisition of the new permits me to wallow in the feelings of old. Sorrow is my habit of solace, and in it I'm continuously submereged no matter how much I try to fight it, and no matter how convincingly I tell myself that all is well now. Indeed - the pain is gone, but the echoe is here, and it's almost as loud. Even worse then it's spiritually audio presence is its replicating pattern of existence. For it to go away. That would leave a greater void for I would have nothing to fill the emptiness with.

Breaking point - not at the boiling point, but down, further along the curve, after I've re-reached the cooling point. Here I am. Here I am. Here I am. All that I possess is me, but do I fully possess me! Nothing more sure of am I then myself, and I regret nothing. I hate little (except my own inadequacy) and I regret nothing. My flaw...I love to much, and to that I shall probably fall. But even falling is something. It's the stand still that kills.