I sit in my room, alone as always. I listen to needlessly silly music, trying to pretend that this doesn't hurt. Every day, a little bit dies, and I have to cover it up. At some point, exhaustion should set in; I've listened to too much Matthew Sweet, 4 Non Blondes, and The Cranberries for me to pretend I'm not down. My claws are out, and all I can hear right now is the music and Prester Bane's little voice telling me to make it all go away. They never like to share.
Everything on this page, and on this site is copyright Thomas Jackson 2006
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If Jacob is renamed Israel for Struggles with God, perhaps I should only be whispered for struggles with words.
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