I think the older I become the less I feel the need to speak.
The things I seem to encounter in my life are pretty much only disrupted by words—it feels.
I’m restless in my own mind.
Something larger than language has entered my bloodstream.
No amount of water could flush such a healthy sickness from me—I am in severe pain.
I am in severe pain.
A young girl was speaking to my friend Prisilla about her strong wanting for her own death.
That the sooner her death was upon her, the sooner she would then be emancipated from earthly restriction.
I did not know what to say.
I said nothing.
In someways I feel the same, though I do not anticipate death.
I would feel sad to say goodbye so soon.
