(Sometimes I want to use my hands, and tear my stomach open. Dig everything out. Not just the bones and the organs and the tissues and the veins of blood, but everything else inside. Because some days I wake up and I feel so angry with the world and so angry with myself and I don’t understand why. There’s a staggering scream lodged deep inside the pit of my body, pressing against my chest, crushing my heart, and I try to breathe, breathe, and breathe with each sharp pang.

It claws hard and cries frantically to get out and I can’t help but to cry along with it. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I say, I don’t know what to do. I don’t understand what went wrong, what I forgot to do, where the screws came loose, when the limbs came apart and the knees buckled and the soul broke down and was swallowed whole.

But still I get up, and I bathe, and I eat, and I remember to put one foot in front of the other foot and walk and smile as a reflex action at smiling faces around me and I laugh at strings of sentences passing me by just because they sound like attempts to joke and I try to love the people that I recall still loving just yesterday and I do my work, and I pee and shit and after awhile I get so used to the pain it that it becomes positively dull. That's all? I think. Well, it's okay. It's really not so bad after all. I can manage. I go to sleep.

The sun comes up. I get up, and I bathe, and I dare to croak in a voice too high a tuneless song in the shower.)