You've whispered those things in dark of the night's space. Things you'd now find shame in, as you do when I've reach for an embrace.
It isn't that I am bitter, how could I possibly be? You've been telling what to think, even how to pretend that I'm a human being.
And now that I've left this world, leaving only this note, will you tell the others why and how I've failed, with a spectacular anecdote?
“The thought of suicide is a great consolation: by means of it one gets through many a dark night.”
