...

It's funny how despite your body, being rational, rejects it, but you'll keep feeding yourself something to soothe the wounded soul. Perhaps I should start making a list of sorrows that plague onself. And I do not care for anyone asking me "you emo meng?" The tortured poet finds art and solace in his or misery. Sad fact. Nothing to say of the jagged, yet fine lines of my heartwork. But as the ink in this pen runs out so has my will to sleep... and also my will to stay awake. Where does one go from here?