I bought another bottle of wine—the 1.99 Euro, white kind.

The definition of insanity is the repetition of an act with the expectation of a different outcome.

I think I’ve gone insane, each time I buy a bottle of wine, my night ends the same way:
lying on the ground, sobbing to music I have associated with a time in my life.  Some nights I manage to drag myself from the floor, peel all of my clothes off and slip into bed, some nights it’s impossible to leave the floor of my temporary flat.

I’m lonely.

I might be an alcoholic.

Lately, I have been grabbing a few beers to drink on the train.  Hours and hours expire as passengers enter and escape the cars.  Timid inside, I feign confidence entering the underground späti’s, scanning the beer selection, then grabbing an Augustiner, Krombacher, or a Warsteiner.
Then it’s back to the train.  

I’m alone but I’m not alone if there are people around me on the train.

I’ve been thinking these things for days.  Writing it, documenting my position makes it real.  

Pathetic.  

My eyes well with tears,

what should I do?

I don’t need something, I need someone.  

I have enough things.