I remember some cold things. Some things I would tell you if I wasn't so ashamed. I could feel the numb. I remember wanting pain more than it, and now realize they can be the same. They can be the same.

I like blood from my own wrists. I enjoy nails theoretically. The reality is what breaks a man. The truth is the crushing blow, because we glue on our masks with cement. We glue on our masks like children, and of children there are at least two halves. The first is of faith, which we ought to have, while the second is of wild recklessness, which leads to our cemented heads.

I may have to delete this, but I must bleed. "Lord, I must bleed," I'd say. I say. Her. That's not it, but that I can feel, and I want to feel. Not fall. Feel. Numb, pain, numb, pain, numb—stop. Write. Job. Work. Busy. Friends. Church. Stop. Pray, read, pray. Read. Pain, numb, empty, numb, empty, empty, empty, tired, lost. Stop.

Am I wrong? Am I in a test? The "dark night of the soul" was supposed to end, right? Joy is a command. Desire is a duty. Wrong? You? I? Skeptic. Cynic. I love it—the cynic. Right? Wrong, sometimes, at times, few times, their times. I wanna be a prophet.

But he sat in mud. In a pit. Saws. Stones. Rags. Ropes, guns, swords, stab, cross, cross, upside down, over and under through hills, valleys, mountains, mountain, hill. Cold. Snow falls, fall snows, green overcast clouds, a shadow. The valley, and a lily, not the lily. Guess it'll be the trashcan then.

Breathe. Please, breathe. Just words, no plans, no things, can't sing, stop poetry, cut down ALL THE TREES. Please. Run faster through the fire I started, in good heart this time I thought, must be, at least better, GOOD HEART. Breathe. Can you breathe? Because I'm supposed to teach others somehow I think.

Lord, help me stop the bleed. Is this a crisis? Kill me ISIS, kill me, "I am n." I am in. Stop the sin, is not feeling sin, is writing of her sin, is thinking such things sin, is not being happy sin, is lacking joy, is being empty, feeling it, SIN? Or am I tired? Lost? Cold? Confused?

WHERE THE FRICK IS SUMMER? Is this the spring, it felt like, must've been. Are the seasons even making the right rounds? What way does the Earth turn round, cuz this here season's come back to me, it seems, it feels, I've felt the fire and I don't mean hell, I don't ask for you to treat me well.

Broken. Is it demons? DEMONS? Twisting and trying. I thought the book was supposed to help me, that one from Piper, and he cites C.S. Lewis, but he's just a philosopher, eh? More of one. The Screwtape Letters. Those demons, they're smart. Not as strong though, but look at me. LOOK AT ME. Stop. Stop.

Where am I at? The time is quarter to midnight, ain't it? Or I thought we'd got to something more like two? I'm starving here though it feels sometimes, could I get a close-to-midnight snack? WHAT? Can I even say it much now? "Thy will be done." Thy will. Be done. Done. I'm not done.

No. I can't be done. I can't.