And So As Much As I Can,

It Really Is Better To Be Lucky Than To Be Good.

Nothing Else Loves Me, Or Ever Will. Not Even - Especially - Me. I Know What I Am And That Is Not A Thing To Love.

A Man Can Take Only So Much. Even A Phony Man Like Me.

Whatever Made Me The Way I Am Left Me Hollow, Empty Inside, Unable To Feel. It Doesn't Seem Like A Big Deal. I'm Quite Sure Most People Fake An Awful Lot Of Everyday Human Contact. I Just Fake It All. I Fake It Very Well, And The Feelings Are Never There.

It's Always Me, Isn't It? I'm Not Really A Very Nice Person, But For Some Reason It's Always Me That They Come To With Their Problems.