I just need to say everything I’ve wanted to say, but can’t. Eloquent or not. These words could end up as nothing more than a mess. That it maybe it was you. That this was how I ended up here, drunk and ignoring my responsibilities, lamenting my dying youth. You’d asked once, if it was your fault: what I’d done, all I’ve done since then. Perhaps, my dear, maybe. I don’t know. In a way, it really could be. It all depends on how you look at things. But it is nothing compared to what I did. And then begging you to care about my pain? How useless, how pathetic. But we both knew I was fucked up. Just like this is — blaming you for the present, when I brought all of this on myself.