I sit on my bunk, blanket draped around my shoulders, elbows on my knees, my head bent over – in my hands. I'm tired, I'm sad, I'm alone in a room of 40 men. People see me, come up to me, asking questions. "Are you OK?" "Do you want to talk?" "What's wrong, man?" "You want to read my Dean Koontz book?"

Why won't they leave me alone? They see I feel the way I do, why do they have to make it worse by intruding? Even though maybe I really need their care and concern, I don't want it; it will be better if they'd just go away, leave me be. What I really want, I can't have.

Friends I can really trust and talk to openly, who improve me merely by their proximity – half a nation away. Someone who might perhaps hold me, let me know things can still – and again – be good. Somewhere, a lover, a partner, a friend and soul-mate. Either we've not yet met, or the catalyst to ignite new feelings goes undiscovered.

I struggle with my thoughts, my despair, my depression; I'm a tin foil knight taming a hydra with a wooden spoon. What weapons logic, sense, rational thought? They bounce off the beast's hide like missiles of glass upon a diamond mirror. I take up the only weapon I can find, and set out to slay paper with pen. The ink flows, black poison from a white plastic fang. The paper is a sacrifice to preserve the author, but what cost, what waste, how much more venom flows in my soul's blood?