Something is pinching my neck. Something else is wearing down my nose. Like a trickle of water slowly eroding a rockface, my nose is being worn away by cold and blood and I want it to stop. I'll just have to tough it out.

Reading my past journals on DeviantArt, it just seems like a whole batch of whining, freshly half-baked each time. Don't I learn anything? Why do I love being the victim so much? Why I can't I have a turn at rescuing or persecuting for once? Wanting something and getting it? Believing in some lesser faith? Couldn't I go back through time and tell myself that the fear was all in my head and be done with it? I guess not. In the past, present and future, there was/is/will be little to fear.

Oh, please frequent my new website/blog!

It's rather dashing, if I may say!

Next week, I will refuse to eat until I talk to a stranger.