I really want to go curl up in a corner and die. I'm pushing everyone away, loving and loathing every little touch. I should move, dance, distract myself from this insidious melancholy. (Why did I leave my romance novel at home?)
And there's no real reason for it, but for a lack of salvation. I could help him if I didn't love him, because then I could be detached enough to ponder it on through in all its multi-colored possibilities. But I love him, and my love is not enough to save him.
It's not enough to save myself, either. I'm bubbling in a sea of confusion, and confusion leads to apathy leads to depression. Whatever. I don't care. (Transition one: check.)
I don't even care enough to finish writing this.
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