What follows is nothing you haven't heard before.

I feel like I'm going to scream. Or cry. Preferably both. But I never do.
I'm so tired. And so cold. And so afraid.

but beyond all that bullshit,

I'm angry. I'm angry with the world for being populated by idiots, I'm angry at the spirits, I'm angry with the Father, I'm angry with Grandfather (oh HELLS I'm angry with Grandfather), I'm angry with everyone I know, I'm angry at myself. A little ball of fury, burning to death but refusing to be put out.

but beyond all that bullshit,

I just want to be loved. That's all. I don't want materials, I don't want an education. I don't want to be successful, I don't want to have to face my destiny. I don't want to live and I don't want to die. All I want is to be loved, cared for, nurtured. Ever since the Great Divide and we sealed ourselves off from the world in different forms I've been my own mother, my own father, my own mentor. It's no secret that everyone who's ever loved me has hurt me. That's everyone. EVERYONE.

but beyond all that bullshit,

I'm a cold-hearted, manipulative bastard. I know how to play people and I do, unstoppably. Yet I don't have any goals; when you play both sides of the board, how can it possibly matter who wins? I have no purpose, and I don't care about anyone other than myself. I just draw people tighter and tighter into my web of manipulation, and when I'm gone they'll all have to come crashing down with me.

but beyond all that bullshit,

I'm a broken, bleeding little grotesque, who might - just might - have the powers of a demigod. I crawl ever onwards, too weak to hold myself up but too proud to ask for help, trying to hide my weakness and becoming angry when it works. I bathe myself in scorn and arrogance to smother the pleas for affection, torn between pretending to stand tall and screaming out for mercy, knowing full well that I've warned people not to listen. I fake Münchausen syndrome. It's pitiful... but I refuse to be pitied.

but beyond all that bullshit,

I'm so tired. And so cold. And so afraid.
I don't care what I am or what I strive for. I am me. I live with things that other people don't live with. I'm basically a good person, at least I think so. I talk about myself a lot, mostly because I'm trying to understand. I don't believe in the "self" that so many people try to find. Actually I sort of look down on them. I'm sorry. I put myself down a lot. I tend to blame myself for things. I have difficulty discerning between what is or is not my fault, what is or is not good and evil, between life and death, between pain and pleasure, between truth and reality. I have no sense of time, place, or worth. I think it's highly likely that I have mental problems. I'm highly intelligent, not that that's worth anything any more. I'm highly conflicted. I'm fed up with the world. I draw lines so I can walk on them. I'm deluded. I'm dangerous. I am Nine... and all I want to do is sleep. Forever.

One month left.