I don't want to think about my broken glass. I don't want to think. Of course you don't. You don't know what you're doing. I should go home.
Home is such a silly, meaningless word.
No, I never do, but there is no one else to talk to, and I have to talk. If only I had not drunk so much, perhaps I could find the right things to say to explain. A month ago, that first morning, I could have screamed in holy rage, and perhaps it would have made sense, but it's long past that moment. I had more things to worry about, larger things. I was a better man then, when I was concerned with impossibilities rather than the pathetic state of my own daily life and my own stunted soul.