I've packed my schedule with work because I didn't want to be burdened by the feeling of having so much time on my hands at the end of the year. We are supposed to rest and have peace, but what have I done all year to take a break from? It's almost like nothing happened. Yes, I have challenged myself to do some things. I've started writing more frequently, and in the summer while traveling alone, I wrote a few short stories, which I never thought I would. Somehow I just ended up writing them because the reality was too funny not to record. It inspired me, the reality—and I think that's something that hadn't happened for a long time.

But in terms of people, I haven't expanded any of my relationships. Instead, I shut down quite a few of them out of sheer sadness that I cannot come through. No amount of words could help me make myself understood. However much I study every day, however much I read books and memorize the words, it never helps me say the things I need to convey. For what I want to tell them is as edgy as a freshly sharpened knife. Yes, I sharpen my knife every day, tune myself so that if the opportunity arose, I could stab them right in the place that hits them most. But do not misunderstand this—I am not murderous by any means. My frustration comes from the fact that not many people try to live. I mean, as much as they have the ability to. Their charm maddens me, because with enough water it would be such a beautiful soul. If I were you, you wouldn't understand how much effort I would withstand for the making of, for the making of myself. You don't understand how much I want to live you, and because I am not you I cannot, which maddens me. So shut the fuck up, don't ask me to water you, nor your soul. And blame me for not giving enough, or giving too much? Who do you think I am? God?