Some say I have thrown it all away. I say I have temporarily chucked it.

It’s all rather difficult to explain; I cannot explain it to myself. Perhaps it is fear that goads me, perhaps it is this restlessness that I feel within. I simply hope that age and time will placate it.

I am consumed by an illness, now it dominates me. It has made of me an untrusting fool but I refuse to finish thus. Must I take my hands, wrapped around his neck, and strangulate until he lets me live?

Blah. All stories conclude alike.

Let us think of this as an interlude; nothing has changed. Perhaps ten years onward but that is much too far, much too fragile to gauge.

For now, I will remain quiet, quite pensive.