Cold - Cold As Truth, Cold As

If I Was Bound For Hell, Let It Be Hell. No More False Heaven. No More Damned Magic.

I Must Write. If I Stop Writing My Life Will Have Been An Abject Failure. It Is That Already To Other People. But It Could Be An Abject Failure To Myself. I Will Not Have Earned Death.

I Found When I Was A Child That If I Put The Hurt Into Words, It Would Go.

Every Word I Say Has Chains Round Its Ankles; Every Thought I Think Is Weighted With Heavy Weights. Since I Was Born, Hasn't Every Word I've Said, Every Thought I've Thought, Everything I've Done, Been Tied Up, Weighted, Chained? And Mind You, I Know That With All This I Don't Succeed. Or I Succeed In Flashes Only Too Damned Well. ...but Think How Hard I Try And How Seldom I Dare. Think - And Have A Bit Of Pity. That Is, If You Ever Think, You Apes, Which I Doubt.

Now At Last I Know Why I Was Brought Here And What I Have To Do.