[This is the only time I will indulge myself and "verbalize" this emotional bowel movement.] I am overdue as it is, not to mention I'm overstaying my welcome where I (don't) rest my head at night. I've already dropped off the map as far most people care, anyway. Frankly, if i can't make a strong enough pitch to the only family I've known, to the one I've done my best for, given everything to, well, then I have to dispense with the magical thinking and accept that perhaps I am simply ill-suited to the task. And that's what I am afraid of. The Isaak 2.0 IPO is a flop, no angel investors waiting in the wings. I fail to secure the capital for my venture. Liquidate the holdings and stop pestering the market. Tough shit. There's no drawing board to go back to; I don't have the luxury of playing the Prodigal Son, sheepishly returning home with hat-in-hand, at the nominal cost of my pride. No such luck for this asshole-- only flashbacks, insomnia, depression, loss, losing time, hunger, and a return to the void of despair that I grew up in. Am I expecting pity? Is that how I want to justify going on? No. And I count my blessings: I knew happiness, I knew love, and I knew life for 7 years, and even the god-awful shitty mess of the last 2 years is still far better than 19 as a sadist's prisoner. Wasted potential, sure-- that's the rub-- but it has not been a wasted life. And I would do it again, for an eternity, reliving the beatings, humiliation, captivity, abjection, and nhilism that ruined me, bookended by this disintegration of all I value and possess, because those 7 years in between, they were worth it. Not all life is precious, but just one day of the sublime, with my loved ones in the warmth of our home, is worth 20 years of misery, to me. A shame if it has to end, but between the plague of active landmines in Bosnia and 11 year-old sex slaves in Bangkok, I'll be polite and show myself out.