a lonely place...

but a place where you're not alone.

where there's familiar sounds and familiar heartbeats and amounts of tension in your jaw and falls in the rhythm of your breathing. Finding a comfort in your own skin.

No not a comfort.

There's no comfortable option.

You're at work.

For as long as you put up with this.

The sooner you accept it the less hell it'll be.

Punishment for being yourself. Just for being alive.

Parents.

Taking the job would be hell too.
Why?
Cause I would have to believe that I hear your voice all the time. That even though I'm completely "paranoid".
It's not paranoid.
It's completely self obsessed.
You're trying to speak
...you're own story.
There are creatives.
Some sell-outs, all well-dressed.
Musicians. etc.
There are addicts.
Whose devotion to God is equal only to their feelings of total unworthiness.
And there are schizophrenics.
Whose narcissism is paralleled only by the extremely successful.
And whose failure is only determined by their feelings of complete worthlessness.

If you fall, then you're fucked.

If you're wrong. If you listen. There's some sort of hell waiting for you.