Stylish exits of my past

From The Italy Journal-

November 6th, Thursday

@Ornato, 12.30

"I wonder how long I can write letters to myself. I wonder if everyone gets as sick of their own voice as I am. I can't stand hearing myself think anymore. It is there all day, maybe for lack of conversation. It is like my mind talks with itself afraid that if I don't I will fade into nothingness, gone for good. But perhaps I am gone for good. I have shrank away from view... maybe even view of myself. I am my thoughts and my thoughts are nothing to the world.
So I am writing endlessly to my future self to read and laugh...or cry. However, right now I feel emotionally dry. OR drained. I need music to take notice to feeling... to even feel alive. I am just walking around doing the rounds. I am a wonder kid. That is what I am. A wingless bird who doesnt even bother to look at the sky because it hurts to see. And the sadest part is that I did this to myself. Then I feel the light of any emotion, sad or otherwise, and it is fleeting... then I feel stale, like dry bread left out on the counter.
So this is depression. It's here every day, right when I wake. I think it picks me... I don't choose it. I get out of bed, and there it lies, waiting for me in the corner. And sometime...or, no, usually it stays all night. It is in my dreams, guiding me all the way to the gallows of the emotionless duldrums I call life. I am so fucking bored. I am cought in the middle of this spider web and every day it sucks my blood till eventually I am but a shell. And now I fear I have little left to me. Little to go on. Then I start to think of a stylish exit... a crafty way out. 15 come to mind."