I must get back my soul from you; I am killing my flesh without it.
Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.
The darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
Your room is not your prison. You are.
It's as if all my senses fed involuntarily on him and deprived for more than a few hours, I languish, wither, die to the world.
I am myself. That is not enough.