I grow so weary. My insides crave sleep and the rest of me only continues to function because I can’t bear the thought of you knowing that I am no longer alive. I loathe and long for the silence, ache to be alone in companionship, cannot bear the thought or action of sleeping alone, but sleep alone and dream alone, awaken alone — awake and alone and knowing that all I can ever aspire to hope for are a few bright moments in a life largely built of solitude. And so I must speak, must tell you: I am giving up. Have given up on love.