Let's be frank. Frank is a guy who walked off in the woods one fine day, a crisp spring morning. The birds were singing, the trees were lush, the skies were the bluest of blues. He sat down on on rock beside a trickling stream and lit a cigarette. We watched the smoke drift liftlessly out over the water and fade off into the faint sounds of the wild. A doe traipsed by delicately and paused briefly to nibble some likens off of the root of an oak in the misty distance. Frank quietly reached to his side and pulled out a 12 gauge shotgun. He lifted the stock up about shoulder high, turned the barrel to his mouth, and dropped the stock low. The doe looked back to him. He felt his thumb down into the trigger and closed his eyes. He pressed down. The forrest exploded with a single clap of thunder and gumbo spread about the leaf-covered banks behind him. His body collapsed and draped into the stream. The doe danced off into the distance.

Let's be frank. I don't belong here. There is no place in this world for me. There are people who know me and love me and trust me, but I have a "Frank" moment in my mind each day.. my time here must be short. There is no cure, there is no fix. I am content with others like me, but I seldom find that. I may find the odd depressed type of mood here and there, and I can certainly raise anyone's spirits up, but I seldom find someone who lives in the low-lying depths of dysphoria for such extended periods. I feel very alone. I don't even know how in hell I've held on as long as I have. It is a waste.

Perhaps if I knew where we are, collectively, as a group, I could get myself there. I'm free as a bee. I tend to think we are pretty well spread about though. I tend to think that I'm a little too old to be of any interest to anybody anymore. I'm really fuckin' down.

I don't belong here.

If anyone knows a place for me, let me know.