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I don’t want to play the guitar. I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to speak. I am being punished for what happened. It’s the right thing; I deserve it. Mom and Dad were desperate when I came back home: bags under their eyes, upset faces. I have never seen them like that. Because of me. It was four o’clock in the morning. But I got what I wanted. Finally, I found a way to defend myself against this poisonous scorpion, which is reality. Hating is the only way to be more poisonous than the scorpion. A swift hatred like the fire that devours paper and straw, and a hatred that burns all that it touches, and the more it touches the more it is exalted. To be bad. To be alone. To be fire. To be iron.

This is the solution. Destroy and resist.