_An uncharacteristically quiet night; quieter than the roaring of ears, the droning of fears. And something else, too, something priveleged yet miserable, unknown yet obvious, what, what . . . ._ ME: Sometimes I think I’d like to die young. I don’t know if I can face the decline. I don’t know if I can take the failing of systems, the twilight after the golden shadows, the missing of chances, hell, just the accumulation of bug-bites is enough to make me want to disappear in a heap. Sometimes I think it would just be easier to explode at an early age, just, you know, crumple myself up and get thrown away so someone, somewhere, can start over, fresher, cleaner, with more of a chance. Or something. I don’t know. Hell I can’t even make a good dramatic speech on nights like this. _HIM must be sleeping or something. A small bunny, outside in the rain, perks up its ears for a moment, is quiet, moves on_