Dead.
I am dead. Or am I dying. I've wrote a novel in less than four days. It took me three to type up. So, a week to complete it. And now it is done. I'm giving it to three people to read. And I need to get it published. If I fail in this attempt, not only have I wasted my last week, but I will have wasted my last year and a bit. My life, perhaps. Certainly my love. I must make something of it all, of the incoherent devestation this life brings in multifold. I feel like burying myself alive.