I've said before that I could tell stories, but I lied. I have little to say and even less to talk about. There is a calmness to emptiness and a secret shame to hypocrisy. I am full of it and know it. In me resides something greater than this, and I neglect it. No one knows this more than I, but some suspect. I lost my last stories with my last friendships – in falsities. It is self obsession gets you here, yours or theirs, it doesn't matter. Where you are is what it is in the end and thinking over the path that brought you here brings little satisfaction. You could beat yourself up or blame your companions, but you'll only dig yourself deeper into isolation. Solitude doesn't supply you with wisdom when you're lonely. What if I don't want to be with myself? What if my voice in my head is the last thing I want to hear? Hope once lost is so hopeless. The knowledge that hope can be lost is the most painful thing there is to encounter. Do you know what it is to now know yourself?

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