...poking A Lump Of Red Jello That

He Stares At Me, And Then Leans Back In His Chair. "he's Ill, Jacob." I Say Nothing. "he's A Paragon Schnitzophonic." "he's What?!" "paragon Schnitzophonic," Repeats Uncle Al. "you Mean Paranoid Schizophrenic?" "sure. Whatever. But The Bottom Line Is He's Mad As A Hatter.

I Want Her To Melt Into Me, Like Butter On Toast. I Want To Absorb Her And Walk Around For The Rest Of My Days With Her Encased In My Skin. I Want.

The More Distressing The Memory, The More Persistent It's Presence.

You Do Right By Me, I'll Show You A Life Most Suckers Can't Even Dream Of.

I Cling To My Anger With Every Ounce Of Humanity Left In My Ruined Body, But It's No Use. It Slips Away, Like A Wave From Shore. I Am Pondering This Sad Fact When I Realize The Blackness Of Sleep Is Circling My Head. It's Been There Awhile, Biding It's Time And Growing Closer With Each Revolution. I Give Up On Rage, Which At This Point Has Become A Formality, And Make A Mental Note To Get Angry Again In The Morning. Then I Let Myself Drift, Because There's Really No Fighting It.