I am possibly mad. Or, going to go mad, and finally lose myself.

I am stuck with my writing. I have the plot, I have the outcome. I have written days and days, consumed in my depressing fantasies. And I finally cannot find the words to write. I feel as though I have exhausted myself. So hollow and empty, I feel like a scarecrow.

Words and words I have desperately cancelled and I wonder if these sleepless nights are worth it. I want to write this. I want to convey myself.

But I am so tired of my incessant droning and depressing vocabulary. I have set the poet to ask for death, but it is only the beginning of the story. I cannot do that. It is so abrupt and rude.

I think I need to rest, before I actually die from this malady.