28/05/2020 3:25PM / The sirens are still wailing. I am recycling myself and hate the world, everyone in it — it feels feeble-minded to be without rage. It smells like 2017 again, which is the only thing that smells like void. The reason I can’t let go [yet] is because I feel responsible and there is no way for me to solve it. I’m not, I was never the one to solve it. I forget what the truth is sometimes. Pride bites and can kill you if unattended. It’s better to take a fall for once, I tell myself, which is more of a her by now, directionless and stupid and blonde. I wonder about Marilyn and how she died and what she was thinking when she died, no matter the cause of her death — now I focus, rather, on the perfumed pillow, the withered locks of whitened hair, the rapid thoughts of ceasing. My hair continues to fall out without reason. I was possessed by lust as a teen and can no longer remember who I was [before]. Like smoking. Like kissing. Like pleasure. It lingers. It takes the pain away, yes, and so does drinking, but it fills your brain with air instead (I already lost so many years to love and to healing from love and to smoking and trying to cease). Being a tea-drinker or water-drinker or red wine-drinker and away away away is a better look. There is nothing left, though I lied to myself. Say please and thank you. Say: I will never return. Being dependant on anything and/or anyone is the only thing that can hurt us. Leave everything but the soul. Leave everything but the sack of selves and an honest mirror.