I'm not really sure what's going on inside of me, these days, but something is terribly wrong. Just going through
the motions it seems retracing the paths I know i've already seen. Autopilot with the wrong directions.
I told myself I was happy, told myself I was alive. Very much dead am I, never be new, never be whole, never be
done. This Sickness inside is my own. Created by these hands and out these hands I shall fall. My enemy was never
you. It's the failure I see starring right back at me. As I look in the mirror, could it be someone else. Did it have
to be me?
I told myself I was happy, told myself I was alive. Very much dead is the blood in these veins and very much dead
am. And I choose this way of living, and I choose this way to die. As I drag this razor across my skin, I beg you
not to cry. This sickness is all of my own. As I stand on this ledge, please don't fear that I might die. This
is my last attempt at learning to fly.
Now the time has come.

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