no

accomplishment is all there is. all that remains yours. except of course that it doesn’t, and it stinks, all of its own. i am talking to walls.
today is another day when i hear him cursing like he wasn’t a memory: every day i wish it was over before i have left the bed i think about this an(other) day of treachury. any day is as good, and i never know in advance which day it is.
other is the unbearable death. that is the death that must be thought through, lived through. your own death is only a ghost.
she is sweet and lovely and i love her too much to bear. i told her she was mean and uncaring, today, i felt it then, but at the same time all the other but i only said the one because…i don’t know.
i know there’s no forgiveness and nothing to forgive for.