They do not know the loneliness here.
They do not know the feeling of having no one to look at, to talk to, no one to touch.
The feeling of being the only person in the whole world.
If I could get a pair of socks . . .
A nice pair of clean socks . . . I could shove them down my throat.
I hope it’s raining when I die. I like that idea, of me being on the floor, my face purple, my body eaten by crocodiles, my bones—cold as the floor . . . and the rain just pouring down.