A Work Of Fiction

It's late. A sense of dissatisfaction. This is the way it is. Edgy. Cold. So alone it automatically sounds like 6th form shit. Maybe it is. That don't make it any easier. Toughing it out. That's the way it goes. You're maybe in with a crowd. Immersed. What do I make of it? I find it hard to give you sympathy. That wouldn't help anyway. I'm not sure you'll bring yourself out of it and there's no way anyone else will either. Predicament. Staring me in the face. Money. Work. Sex. Hope. Self-respect. 'Death games'. I'm not a judgemental person. That was why you liked me. I wish I was different. Then I wouldn't be where I am now. You will do your own thing. Maybe it'll end up bad. I hope not. I won't be involved. I'm happy with that.