There are names we cannot bear to hear.

Tell me what you see, you who have eyes to see and ears to hear--do you click your tongue and think of the gray offices where I could recline and eschew the jagged assemblages of my thought? Do you wander in trembling troughs of worry, thinking Oh when will he smile? And will he not come again?

What gives you the patience to wait? What monstrous charm availed itself that you would suffer until I emerge, wet with rebirth, and hand you my newfound grins? Will they not become regret and bitterness and wretched anger again? This is the sweet rancor of my company.

I blame you for things you have not done. I am driven away from you by sins you have not committed, by imagined wrongs that I know well enough are fiction, but whose power I cannot refute.

There are names I cannot bear to hear. To Hell with you, you bastards I have never met. I can hate the faceless, and I can hate the faces I know better than my own. I resent your candor, I resent your doing the things that I would have done. I resent that I would not have been strong enough to do that which you have not done, that which I condemn you for. I will remember next time.

In the sorry meantime, fuck it.