i'm borrowing words, borrowing thoughts, images... anything... everything
i can't make anything any more; i'm just destroying... demolishing.
those small moments when i think i'll arrange or clean up, they are feeble lies. for, though, yes, it's sanitary, tidy, neatly arranged, stacked on shelves - it's all broken, torn apart, missing, and out of place.
i have familiarity and i have things, but i don't belong anywhere. everything has been temporary : no job for more than 3 years, no man for more than he thinks he deserves me, no life, no calling - nothing more than an empty ruse of wasted potential... potential for what? to be this great thing that no one can really say
a jack of all trades, master of none save loneliness - except i've learned once again, that i can be even lonelier than i thought i was when i was lonely.
if you look at me... you are seeing a shell... whatever was inside died long ago, it kept fighting to live, but now jostles, dried up and tumbling down the abyss...
once my books are gone from here, my very soul will no longer be - no bright hopes, no plans, just one goal : June... i have to make it to June, and i have to do it on my own

loneliness becomes selfishness which in turn makes the loneliness deeper and self-imposed...