I just learned that my next-door neighbor died a week before I came home. Joe Hartlove, Junior. The man was in his forties and still lived with his Mother, Amber. She used to travel often and leave him on his own. In her absence, he'd stop taking his medication for schizophrenia and I'd hear him banging on walls and shouting all night
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No.
I'm terrified of becoming him.
I want not to fail at life.
It's pitiful, his life, it is.
...And depressing.
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[ sorry if that sounds a little odd coming from me ]
i should like to meet you
again some day
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do let's meet again...
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