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It always easier to write when I am unhappy; mind you that unhappy doesn’t necessarily mean sad, it just means unhappy. I want to listen the my own voice, it’s like the answers reside in the words that I stamp on the page, but for me to see the answers I have to stamp the pages. Is it fair to hurt people, is it fair when you know the outcome is going to destroy so much of one’s joy? I think not; but how do you know it’s going to head that way. I am so twisted man, so fucking twisted. I am going to pay for this, life doesn’t bring you such fruits on a daily basis, and I know I am going to pay for this. It’s ridiculous, it makes no sense, and yet again it does make sense. The possibility is there, so close to your skin, my skin, it’s there I’ve breathed it, smelled it, touched it-- I am going to pay for this, but rather this than the possibility to that. Why do I leave her in pain, I am…
I’ve always been attracted to people who are suffering. It’s my vice, if you need my help I’ll give it to you without wanting anything else, without demanding anything more. That’s my calling in life, to alleviate pain. That explains everything I’ve done in my life, why I am doing what I am doing, why I am still working this career, why I picked up that phone.