Best Friend

It's a mental block that we're always back at this crossroad.

We halt reluctantly, agonize against our will, make a grateful roundabout, yet ultimately seek the misery of this familiar scene.

Your concern is unbelievably detached. You are amazingly impervious to my moods.

Any allusion to the putting in of effort utterly disengages you. I hate you only because I love you so. I hate myself.