[ . . . is he beating himself up? he doesn't know. he thought that he was letting himself off so easy, for so long. people here tell him that it's okay, to care a little less but - is it? his heart aches with the idea of slowing down again.

of becoming such a wretched person again, who only breathed and barely lived.]

.... my friend died. [he says this softly, like being mindful of a raw wound] I think.... I have to find out why. I don't think I get to give up anymore.

[his tattooed hand clenches into a fist]

I don't want to be someone who wants to run away again.