I almost feel like I need to let go of my hate for a time to write about him. Something tells me he'd find this hatred a contemptible weakness. I guess it's just the permeating feeling of weekness in all things right now; the total humiliating defeat of goodness, of wholesomeness, of love itself. I'm sure I'm not the only one feeling like this, but that knowledge brings little comfort, after all, we all die alone. Well look at this drivel. I guess I can still write, at any rate. I guess that is something.