I hope, that your story isn't my story. I hope that in your book of sad people running away, I don't see myself portrayed, please don't ever write again. Those lines they just seem to trace the roads that I've walked, and no they don't, they never run out of ink, so the pain keeps on being spilled in the paper, in my flesh, in the paper, in my flesh. It's a vicious circle and I can't get away, but I need to run away. Please stop writing, please stop telling me I'm dead.