Nowhere: 1

Nowhere: 19

I am nothing more than a broken object.

This feels like the end, every second, over again.

Let me waste away, this wasted thing, this person who isn't a person. Let me hold onto this useless truth that neither condemns me nor saves me.

Pointless. Otiose.

Worship the everlasting darkness, the all-consuming monstrosity, the opaque impossibilities, the deprivations and surcharges of the sense. Worship it and still fall, still fail, still be consumed by it and haunted by it. Worship it and be punished as if you weren't. Worship it and feel the meaningless, worthless betrayal.

I stand in the epitome of lunacy.

This implies that such is a possession.
And this only further obscures the path to sequitur.

Nothing living lives here.

This is the glory of mortality.

Hidden behind the aberration and anarchy and false witness upon this land, there is me. Singular. Separate. Segregated. Alone.

I feel guilty.

If this is guilt I feel.

I’m losing it. Hollowing out. Fading away inexorably like a force of nature. Like water carves through rock.

There once was a fortification, when in reality it was entrapment. It was worthy of being abandoned. It would have eventually imploded, leaving me as I am now.

Ripped to shreds and spitting on what remains. The illusion of choice.

Don't think of this as suicide, but more like a mercy killing.

I have nothing. I am nothing, and there is nothing for me. The time has come.

To whom it may concern: I'm sorry.