“I'm old, Gandalf. I know I don't look it but I'm beginning to feel it in my heart. I feel thin... sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread. I need a holiday. A very long holiday. And I don't expect I shall return. In fact I mean not to.” I can’t keep going. Not like this. I can’t live like this. I can’t live without moving on. I’m so tired. I’m bored. I’m sick of myself. I want to be outside of all this. I want to be removed from this body, from a world of social beings that I can’t quite understand. God, I’m so tired. It's SO VIOLENT, SO VIOLENT and CRUEL. I'm such a selfish person. I hate how selfish I am. I have so much compared to the rest of the world, and yet most of the world keeps willing to live on, while I am willing to die. It makes no sense; I'm so damn selfish. I deserve to die for even wanting to die. <Mod Edit-methods>I want a deadly stroke of luck in my sleep (painless MI or something like that if it's possible). I dream about falling off of a tall cliff in bright daylight, and I grasp and hold my breath and wait in happiness 'till the end. It's frighteningly joyous. I feel like Bilbo. I'm so bored, and tired, and ready to move on. I feel old, old enough to die.