The odds are all against me.
I cannot change them.
I cannot change me.

And the patterns set inside of me
                   will stay with me for the rest of time.
                                                                        Plotting against me.
                                                                        Conspiring against my sanity.

For all this,
            I cry for me,
            I pity me.
            I pity me.

I have absolutely no way to console me.
So I don’t even try.

I neglect me.
I let me wither… slowly.
I let me down.
I let me die of inertia.
I let me drown...
                        in loneliness,
                            and misery.

I give me up totally
                 to God’s necrophagic appetite.

I give up the holy fight
                        to guard my sanity.
And I set me,

August 1996