044144 money has no meaning when I'm standing in walmart without a point of view to really make me remember and feel that I'm acting out of emptiness. the jug of booze is only $17? hey, that's a bargain. even though about four weeks ago that number would have been the difference between bouncing a check and having supper on the table. how am I supposed to manage real money if I ever get a real job, if I can't hold on to my point of view now? the flurry of noise in my head, constantly craving stimulation, I'm always thinking but rarely working. OK this *has* to change. I have to get out of solitary confinement if I'm going to change it. lying here at 4:30, $120 poorer because I am not important enough to get sick pay, the pit of despair is deep. shame, confusion, not understanding how I could have become such a failure, not even sure how to define what success would even be at this point, honestly not sure what is possible anymore, what it is or isn't too late for. the silent wall with paint chipping off at the level of the chair backs. the scratching of a nocturnal mouse in which the cats take only a passing interest. the febrile ringing in my ears. the hardness of the futon beneath the futile extra padding. the steady self-loathing. Annmarie said she dreamed of a glass wall between her and us. I have one too, between me and everybody.