A few glimmers of hope, like twinkling stars in the night sky, have been lost to the blackness of a dream that never ends.
Don’t offer me your false tidings; your surrogate ambition; the projected idea that I owe this world, that I owe you something more than existence. I am not here to be your carved marble idol. I am here to be. And I will live and leave on my terms.
If there were a presence, a warmth beside me in this cold room, I would cherish it for the sympathy it offers, but its efforts would be wasted.