It is not for us to decide who lives and who dies, who stays and who goes. Why should the pot say to the potter, "why did you make me like this?" I guess I never understood that question, I never understood the rhetoric. One thing I do understand: my mind is twisted now. There is nothing now to do but sit, and wilt, and wait for something to come into me and fix what I cannot undo. Fix this mess I have made myself to be. One solution leads to many problems, so that I may never be undone. What lies in the shadow of the statue?

But I am him. I am him who says "what about me? what about me was so wrong?" And there is One who says "yes, what about you?" And so I am shamed. And I am disgusted with myself. And I take out my knife and drive it deep. And still, "what about you?"

"There is no one righteous,
No, not even one."

You are all right, but only because I want you to be. I just want to sit here and keep crying about it, because then I really feel it. I lost my ability to feel the good and bask in it. So I am numb unless I am tortured. I am lost.

"There are two sides. One is Light, one is Dark."