I don’t think of suicide as a romantic think I think it’s tragic, and that’s why I love it. I think of it as a way to let people know about what they did to you and to make sure they don’t forget it’s their fault. This isn’t the case for everyone, but for me it is. Suicide is revenge.
Hey you! Out there on the road,
Always doing what you’re told, can you help me?
Hey you! Out there beyond the wall,
Breaking bottles in the hall, can you help me?
There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it I have now surpassed. My pain is constant and sharp, and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this, there is no catharsis; my punishment continues to elude me, and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself. No new knowledge can be extracted from my telling. This confession has meant nothing.