Chapter IV. (cont.)
Declaration: My friends are gone, my friends have left me. For better things and for better families. I’m filled with hate and scared of grace. You’ll never take what I create…My friends are dead.* Or am I dead. When I looked up, the roof over my head was no longer gold. Its structure as a stronghold, a memory. I looked up and could see the holes, neglected, the weathered damage caving to the snow and rain. My house leaking over my head and so are my friends dead or am I dead. This coffin punched with holes as I lay dying. Dissociated from my reflection in the mirror. Dissociated without my associations. Where are my associations. I stare in the mirror with no associations and so dissociate. So are my friends dead or am I dead. When would I wake up and know who was dead.