The days and nights bleed together, and I don't know what the hell I'm doing, or where. I have a notion of 'how', but that requires actual determination to follow through with these plans, these ideas, these quaint little notions that I can Be Somebody. That I'm not just some burning out hypocrite encased in make-believe. Even when the fantasy seems better than the reality, I know it's nothing more than a figment of my overly active imagination, and means nothing if I don't put it to some good use.

There's got to be something more to me than meets the eye; there must be more than my reflection. There must be someone home in this body, this shell.

There must be. Now if she'll only answer the fucking door.