I am so tired. I feel myself drifting, away, a little by little. I am overcome by the sensation that I am crumbling, parts of my being drifting away.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.

You’re not like the others. I’ve seen a few; I know. When I talk, you look at me. When I said something about the moon, you looked at the moon, last night. The others would never do that. The others would walk off and leave me talking. Or threaten me. No one has time any more for anyone else. You’re one of the few who put up with me.

What a terrible thing it is to wound someone you really care for and to do it so unconsciously.

I cannot rid myself of the feeling that I’m not in the right place.