No one wants to die alone and yet, could death be any lonelier than our lives, the way we drag them around tied to the masts of inexpressible sorrows? Could it be any lonelier than these desperate calls for help, echoing behind our smiling faces? Could it be any lonelier than love, as we carelessly light wild fires in the virgin forests of innocence?

Last night, I said it all in one drunken monologue, then I remembered why I'm only drawn to the people who suffer in solitude. I went to bed at dawn, feeling exhausted yet unsatisfied, a voice in my head screaming for more- more laughter, more pain, more poetry, more violence, more creeping paranoia and midnight summer walks and dreams of absolution.

We shall not spend our nights crouching behind defensive walls, we shall not waste our days following orders; although we no longer believe in unity, compassion or forgiveness, we were not made to sail those stomry seas alone.