Yesterday, I spent sixty dollars to have a psychic tell me something that I already knew:  I needed to move the fuck on. I don't know why I linger anymore, why I can't keep my eyes averted, why I need to be there somehow, for whenever he decides that I exist again. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of repeating the same pattern of madness, knowing fully well the picture that gets painted in the end-- I, alone, in the periphery of life-- mine, and everybody else's, shrinking in the crushing, withering dark.

You mean nothing to this person. Nothing.

I find myself seeking seers when I'm desperate to be shown an alternate reality, when I'm out of hope. Maybe, maybe?  I want them to feed me lies. The illusion of  a sweeter, gentler life. This was what I wanted yesterday. And today. And always. I don't want the truth anymore.

The truth always sucks.