The cat sat on the rat in the hat on the mat. The cat sat on the rat in the hat on the mat. The cat sat on the rat in the hat on the mat. The cat sat on the rat in the hat on the mat. The cat sat onjdsdysyfvbxfordnvkudhrgiureuwhfbvSYUGFYUIVBDNFBT

If one more person says, "You know you can always talk to me," I am going to scream.

The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. Down the drain. In vain. On the plain. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.

Think. Think. Think.

And words. . . . . I need words. . . . . to keep out the emptiness. As long as I write, and don't stop writing, as long as I don't feel anything. . . . .

The thing is, I know I can never talk to them. What would they do? Shake their head solemnly; sigh in an insipid, abject sort of way; perhaps - maybe perhaps - dare a few cautious words like, "It's tough," or "It must be so hard" . . . . . Silence.

How now brown cow. How now brown cow. HOW NOW BROWN COW.

All alone. Black hole. Void. Empty. Silent. Hollow. Lonely. Gone.

All that life - shining from her like that splash of sun through the curtains in the morning, reverberating around her like a chorus of bees, dancing, filling the very air - all gone. Down the drain. In vain. Like the rain.

The churning in my stomach freezes like my smile, and I feel like I've died too.

I go numb.

Numb.