tuck those derisive comments between the pages of a journal you’ll open again after you’ve finally conquered your world. on the first page you scrawled in your semi-southern drawl, “i am dying and i cannot save myself.” you read that page over every day. you’ve lived ten thousand and eighty-seven hours since then, hasn’t your outlook changed one bit? you’ve made it this far haven’t you? what’s another day, another step forward or backward so long as you don’t think about it?