mortuary typhoid where we keep the souls of our dead. our dead souls. struggling with all my might to keep myself from being depressed, because all my passion has been destroyed. and i let it be. what hope do i really have? it will take me years again to get to that point. and i keep on dropping sooterkins of pain everywhere i go 001024 ... amy rrrr... you fuckball! how can you be so sure? because i'm 25, and i know that at 19, i didn't know myself that well at all. time changes things- faster than you can get a handle on, too, if you're not depressed. well... i said that i wouldn't leave, and i meant that. i don't know how to follow through, or anything, but i did mean it. 001024 what's it to you? who go blather from