Your making me sick again. I feel it creeping up inside me, like slow insects.

insanity.

I haven't slept in days. As minutes tick by in red illumination, I lie and contemplate contemplation. life after death. suicide. the weight of dirt.

It worries me when I can no longer recognize my own handwriting. I wonder briefly if my hands wrote these words, or did some strange girl creep into my skin. I lift my fingers to trace the lettering, but they stop short, as if smashing into an invisible glass shield.

No longer can I define hate, I no longer can define love. Maybe because I have experienced neither, perhaps because I have experienced both at the same time, and therein lies my problem. Is it insane to be able to tell yourself, "don't say I didn't warn you"? Sometimes I'm sure I should get as far away from myself as possible. Have I ever told you I think someone has been contaminating my toothbrush? It just occurred to me there are people in this world who no longer remember their own age. I would like to be one of these people.