twenty november
twelve : sixteen a.m.

it always comes back. it always comes back.

he just keeps talking.

"i just want everything to be over, i guess."

"and then what?"

"i don't know. i could just look back on everything i've done and know how it all turned out, and know that it has all happened. there's nothing to be done. i hate waking up, and knowing i have to do something, or that i'm going to do this or that. i hate looking forward to things..i really hate that. i hate knowing that i have to do certain things, and then i'll do that, and it'll be nice, and then i'll finish what i have to do, and whatever it is i'm looking forward to will come, and i'll do it, and then its over, and i look for something else to look forward to. even..even if its something really great..sometimes, things are so great, its amazing. sometimes things are so wonderful, but then they'll end, and it wont really matter. i don't know. i'm sorry."

every time he says "i'm sorry," the crying starts all over again.