I couldn’t possibly tell you the truth, could I? Couldn’t really allow myself to remember the smell, the flavor, the texture of it all? The further away in time, the less real they seem – the memories, that is. I know that I remember. I know that somewhere inside of me every ugly detail is recorded. It’s only in desperation that I allow myself to think about it at all. I’ve hit a wall in living. I’ll die if I don’t do this. I’ve already tried it once. Suicide. It didn’t work, obviously. If it had worked, I wouldn’t be staring myself in the face at this very moment daring myself to do it. To open up. To purge the sludge-filled depths with my voice. My voice. I’ve just got to let it go. The tears and slimy snot dripping down my face. The pity. The anger. My oh-so-cold silence. I gotta let it go.