Dear Natalya, I fear all is not good, I am done with disappointment, I am tired of rejection. I am far too simple a man for this. I am like a wind up robot, who's springs and cogs are soiled. The coat of paint is peeling off of the aluminum, it glows dully in the sun. My fingers leaden. I have run myself out, others have run me out. I am manic-depressive, mute and coated in veils of cheery platitude. There is little hope for me. I see people in the street and wonder how they do it, I am sick of being empty. I am full of sugar water, styrofoam and modeling glue. My veins feel like empty balloons, my heart stings from time to time, I don't sleep well but am tired all the time. I run on caffeine and distraction. Empty gratification. I don't want to joke around anymore, I don't believe you, I don't trust you... I don't trust anyone much, I let them let me down. I sometimes try but give up so easily. I am the butt of my own jokes, I stradle a dead horse, the whip is loose in my hand and slipping. I would rather feel this way, apparently... I keep having dreams of failure and not measuring up, I can't really drink anymore, I thought I could clean myself, I'm thick with parasites, I cling to filth, detritus, abandon... all is not well
Goodbye, M.
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