I feel like you died. You’re not here, you’re not real; because of all of this, I am not here. I do not feel real. I feel alone, left behind for the wolves to feed on. The vultures crawl up on me and devour what is left of this carcus. And yet, although there are bits of me being ripped off and apart each moment, I am still waiting. I’m waiting. I’m always…I will always be waiting.