There's a dream of hell I recall anecdotally where millions of bodies covered in mud thick with excrement were grasping over each other slippery and screaming towards phantom shades of light and hope always just out of reach. Alone in this prison there is a door that never opens. Alone in this prison I peer, I hear, I imagine things beyonds these walls. My life has been grasping for courage for hope for fortune. I would be very grateful for the dimmest shade of light... I have to deduce that I'm just not a good person. I'm not enough. I'm not special in any way, to any one, there's little chance I ever will be. I'm self deprecating. I've withered into nothing. I haven't tried in years. It's a defense against what has come before. What repeats. New faces, new places, new romance.. always ends the same. Why would it be any different if I tried again? How DO you try again after hiding for so many years alone.. withering.. afraid.. bitter.. empty inside.. steeling that emptiness with a tight shell of self hatred.. how do I decide to live again? I've been dead for so long.. but another venture in betrayal would rot the corpse i've become. I couldn't endure it.. and I can't endure this.. solitude.. loneliness.. self exile any better. What is this place for? To vent? To articulate hopelessness and superfluity? To attempt to mold form to the erratic and crushing and mad-flailing pings and chokes and hiccups of emotional failings? Since I have no one. Speak to no one. Am loved by no one. Am valued by no one. Maybe I should attempt the pointless experiment of at least speaking out loud. Crumbum has ___ days to live.