I remember every single bitter goodbye I've ever had to say. Left alone here in this town, though I was never forced to stay.

There are ghosts I've left behind me and there are ghosts that still remain. I can feel their haunting presence every single stupid day.

How they tear at all my motives and pull on every string. Leave me choking on my failures. The whispered voice of muted things.

Am I just some bitter tourist dragged by my wrists through private hells? Am I author and conspirator writing the stories in which I dwell?

To what extent am I  responsible for this situation that I'm in? Am I really as alone as I have always thought myself to have been?

There is little I am sure of and fewer still of which I know, but I know that I am dying and that I'm still not ready to go.

I have unfinished business. I just thought that you should know.