I’m squeezing every bit of pleasure out of this useless material world. But what’s coming out is blackish. I keep dusting. I have tried so hard to be a witch and with magic I never impressed anyone with real power. Secretly you make my world move and so I must renounce the ideas of you and elope to my own island. This false renunciation will only work on my family, for I still know the truth of my obsessions. If I wait for the years to pass, I’ll have to carry so many bodies to wherever they told me they wanted to lay for the rest of their bones’ content. And I’m afraid what they’ll do with mine when I’m finished. You see, I want so badly to hold onto something that is real, that’s why I can’t be so content with just me. But reality is a migraine. I think I’ll just sleep.