I'm back from a death of sorts. I bit the bullet and told myself that I'm not about to get over this and I'm punishing myself as much as anybody else by disappearing off of the face of the planet and not letting anybody know if I'm alive or not. Sometimes it seems like the best way to get through everything but I am in a funk of sorts - I am lonely, a loneliness that feels like it precedes death, and still, I cannot stand company. Not anybody else's. Not even my own. I keep having dreams about my teeth falling out and about people sleeping with other people and I can't talk and I wake up in tears, on the floor on the other side of the room and I never really know how I got there because I always fall asleep in my bed. I told myself seven days, that it'd be seven days and that after that I could waltz back into the world again. I lasted six, which is better (or worse, depending) than I've managed to achieve in as long as I remember. Dublin's getting smaller and I'm less and less scared to drive to different places which really is a curse in itself. At least on the stupid bus I sat with other people. Never really talked, but observed all the same, and at least it's something to tell the bus driver that you want a ticket for two thirty, even if it's very little. It's still sometimes the only thing I'll say all day.