Today was the day, or so I thought. The floor is cold and I don't seem to understand why I'm still here. Not 'here' meaning on the cold floor trying to sleep after a traumatic day, I get that. I mean H-E-R-E...

You know; alive.

My wrists have since scabbed over, as have my feelings toward the day. And the only blood left (wet) is the soft crimson I'm running my finger over in figure eights with my right hand, as I write with my left. In my notebook, maybe I'll post it Saturday.

I'm not aware of others who've survived an attempt on their own existance, but it's draining. Both mentally and emotionally.

Evidence of my red linear pact with the shinigami has been declined, insufficient funds. Or maybe next time I'll cut deeper.

It's raining in London tonight. And I'm laying on the floor of a beach house in King's County Texas, not even close to as dead as I would have liked, and too bored and tired to care.

"It was eleven o'clock and Oskar lay in bed. Slowely tapped out the letters against the wall."
-John Ajvide Lindqvist
'Lat den ratte komma'

Yes
No
Do nothing