I am writhing in impotent frustration--ceaseless fits of melancholy interspersed with violent bursts of euphoria, crowded by testy taciturnitude and ill, snappish humours. My chest seems constantly on the brink of implosion; my ribs flex inward on my heart, breath waxes taut and raspish.

I am leaving. But that isn't all of it.

I need violence and exertion, distraction: a victim for the crouched rage twisting bleak talons in my gut.