I have received word that world is dead, and know that while it lay dying, I ignored its fading plea. Solitude, what piles of it have mounded up on me. This is my place. What is spent on me is wasted, and those who have known me long enough will attest, that I am of suspect character and should not be trusted. I am abberant. I am wrong. Behind every door is an exposing comment, awkward inclusion, or instinct of repulsion. I know that all I have done, besides those things, are scattered behind me in the wind. My licorice heart, lies chewed on, spit out, rolled in dust. I am exposed when in hiding, and all who would otherwise would be smiling, when my name should be recalled, will frown inside, and askyou to never utter that name again. They would rather not remember me, and I would rather not have lived at all.