My mind, in it's never-ending quest for survival has, a little unknowingly until now, devised a safeguard for my body against suicide. One day it told my hand to pick up a pencil and start writing, and now I simply can't kill myself, no matter how much I sometimes, frequently, desperately, lustfully dream of it, I can't do it. Not until all the writing's done.
That being said, I say thank God for cigarettes. And fast cars and motorcycles, and drugs, and lightning, and a powerful ocean. I'm not going to pull any trigger, but I wasn't meant to be here long.
None of us were really.
I know that.
