i use it to store my wealth.

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Nothing but rain, and wind that leads to a lack of snow.
H3 after H3 after H3, failure will come to personify me more than it already does.
I already see myself on a park bench, naked after having sold all my clothes, dying alone under scavenged newsprint.
I feel the cold on my hands, the disgust at myself that has stewed for so many years it has all but congealed into blank, mindless staring. I am not slipping, I've already fallen, all the way to the bottom, and all I can do is use my bloodied fingernails, weary from scratching and scaling the walls of this hole, to attempt to dig my way out, not knowing that every handful of dirt I extract from the ground will only lead me further into the bottom.
There is nothing worth living for.
Not my mother. Not my stomach.
Least of all my dreams, or whatever was left of them once last year finished off with them.
Nothing is worth living for, but the fear of the pain of death.
Sometimes I stop worrying about whatever lies beyond death, because it doesn't matter any longer - it's definitely better than this.
I could do something completely insane I guess, but knowing me it would only fail.
I could do something perfectly rational, but knowing me, it would only fail, more terribly than if I took a complete and utter risk.

Today, I was starting to brush my teeth, and the toothpaste blob fell as a collective whole into the sink.


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