It's brutal, how I sit here
And batter myself against the words of fools
Such as myself,
And now I worry that I do not have the time
To reverse the situation
And exile myself from paradise.

These words mean nothing,
A hopeless jangle of desperate phrase
Before I descend into three weeks
Of useless melancholy.
If I cannot write
Then I shall be no use
And melancholy
Shall cease to be a friend.