He is walking the streets of his mind, blind to any and all rays of light peeking through the crack in slight little flickering beams. It seems that he will never be the assembly of feelings that she called happy. It is there now and again, but it is gone before now becomes then. He walks the path of a thousand other men but he walks it alone. He is Spencer Dennison.
Do you feel pity? Do you feel spite at the idea that I might quite possibly have penned this for for you to feel sorry for me? I enjoy attention. It's a thing I get in rations, packed in a steel MRE waiting to be peeled back and basked in just for the time it takes to flee back again.
I wrote this not for you to feel sorry for him. I wrote this not for you to try to support him. I wrote this why? Because it's late and I have nothing better to do than to create little save-states in the page. To fall back on when things are in doubt. What I get out of this is the calm of mind in knowing that I have shouted my plight into to dead air. So if no-one ever hears my prayer, it's not because it was not offered.