April 30th, 2002 - 9:00 p.m.

Domestica, purgatory, and Ash.

The sounds of domesticated life: the hollow clatter of dishes, the chatter of the dryer making its contents dizzy, the un-uniform drumbeat of dropped objects, the whispery noises of distant cursing, the crackling foot falls against wooden floors. All so foreign to these ears, being more accustomed to music and computer gaming noises.

Have been forced into purgatory. Damn you. How dare you do this to me. Again. This empty stomach tension. Shall eat me alive. And I know you could not care less. Hidden under a thin guise of care, spread so thin that the architectural structure protrudes crudely. Four years, four days and three hours. Four fucken years. This is not a game. And I refuse to play with so much at stake. But you have given me no choice. You know it stabs me right in the heart. You know this will only serve to shorten the life span even more. You know. Damn you.

Ash, you are, and shall remain, wrong in your judgments of me. But I love you none the less. And I shall never forget how today you were able to alleviate pain for just a few hours.

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