The panic attacks are too painful. I have palpatations. Even the wrong line in a novel be painful, a fateful trigger sling-shotting me through a nostalgic neverwhere, the undimension of time. Back to my repressed faux pas. Why did I have to look? There. THERE. A cataclysmic memory etched forever in electrochemical cringe.
I can never say sorry. To say sorry is to revisit, to replough, to resubmerge in the depths of my interpersonal ineptitude. This and for many, many other reasons too convoluted I know I shall die unhappy. Goodnight.