Read more about me, the author of this little book, and the things that I like to do. Also, if you have time, read through some of my past works of writing.

I am so tired. So eternally tired. My body is an empty shell of meaninglessness. It sleeps, breathes and eats. It falls to the ground and hugs concrete. It cracks open, bruised purple and swollen.

All I feel: painful touch. All I see: everything tumbles and falls apart. All the world sleeps when I open my eyes. I am plagued by my decay, and I am confused by promises of love.

I am just another specimen of fine human waste.

I seek spiritual connections, but find the wrong connections. I'm connected to all the people to whom I cannot promise myself. I hurt, I lie, and I betray.

There's a shadow on the wall next to my bed, and between it and me there is only emptiness.

I am a noble ruin. Into the white and pure my dark intentions spill. I stain the mud, sully the water. I can't wait to peel my skin.

I repeat these circles and patterns, retracing my footsteps in the sand. I swing around in a neverending loop of self-indulgence and self-denial.

My reasons and emotions juxtapose, and all I am left with is this weariness. I can't take off. I can't scream. I can't escape. I am boxed in, crumpled up, shredded apart. Next I will be thrown away. I can hold myself together, but enough is enough.