I don't know if the beautiful things are still there, I don't know if there'll be another morning or the evening flowers will bloom till the cold sunlight embraces them, I don't know if I'll ever feel good or be content. I don't know why my wild field lays dead-white in winter and a Rembrandt green in Spring, I don't know why people are like frightening daydreams, demons sitting in the black darkness.
I know that I am a burden, I know that I am bitter and singular, I know that I am angry, I know that if someone wrongs me, I will hate them forever, I know that there is no forgiveness in me and that I am cold and cruel, I know what grief is, I know what distance is, I know that the people who love me are bound to, and it's only because of blood and habit, I know what love and hatred is, I know that it's like some broken heart that still beats like some far-away drum that you can barely hear, and it doesn't beat because it wants to, it beats out of habit and only because it still can, I know that some people say that they love you, and you can barely hear them, you can barely hear them say it.