If anyone calls tell them I'm away. Tell them I'm not here. Tell them I'm in the bathroom having pleasant, quality time with myself. Tell them I have all the wrong thoughts of all the wrong ages and tell them no, I'm not going to do perform some stupid act of self-identity and slit my wrists. I just need to be in my little corner. On a cold, cold pavement, in some sort of physical or metaphysical dirt or sludge. Tell them all I want right now is to hold my knees with my hands, press my head onto my knees and rock like a little unwashed shivering beggar child. Tell them all I want to be right now is small. Tell them I want the pavement to cave, to crumble, to form a tiny little hole, to engulf me. Tell them I'll leave a little bell on the outside and I'll hold the rope from under there and I'll pull it when I feel alive again. Tell them they should really wait for that. Tell them it makes no difference it's all in my head for my head feels I'm buried alive. My head feels like a land-dweller. My head feels like a worm. My head feels he doesn't belong to a human anymore. My head feels like he belongs to a stool or to a spoon head or to some smartly quoted toilet paper. My head feels only flickers of himself. My head is my soul right now and tell them my soul isn't all well today. Tell them my soul is empty. And tell them that in that gap there is pain. Tell them that there is no vacuum but pain. So intense it seems like it has digested anything else. Air, joy, jokes, smiles and even that golden lil twinkle in the left side of my eyes. Tell them I'm not enjoying this. Tell them I feel no need to feel special. Tell them I feel quite plain and ordinary right now. Tell them I feel the pain felt by any decent human being over a certain age who has felt love. Tell them I can't really explain cause others have tried and have failed. Tell them that even if they were to add all the sad songs, all the suicidal poems, all the macabre paintings and all the crucification scenes they wouldn't be able to express this pain. Tell them this pain they probably felt, tell them they know how personal it is, tell them to remember it and then to think about calling. And then to think about telling me "it's gonna be fine" and "oh, honey" and whatever comforting lines and stories they might chose to come with. Tell them they know that only time is capable to wash this hurt and tell them right now I believe that time is only an urban myth, folklore for the hoping and weak. Tell them right now I don't think anything will cure this pain, this hollow, this endless pit I'm occupying. There's only one thing but right now that thing feels impossible it is to me inexistent. In this cold, cold night, under this pale, insensitive moon, in this filthy dirt I'm standing, the thing that can get me out seems so far away I can only sense it in my memories. Tell them I'm remembering happy times and I'm crying. Tell them I wish I cry all my tears away, tell them I want to reach the point it's physically impossible to cry, tell them in a while I'll want to cry and I won't be able and maybe then I'll be able to listen to all the nice-I'm-there-for-you crap. Because every line like that will make me think, will make me remember, will make me want, will remind me of my desperate need. And I don't want that. I don't want to need, to desire, to remember. I don't want to feel all these human little feeble things. Right now I'm so far away from the human race I cannot hope. The only thing always accessible, the only thing remaining after the fire, after the war, after the flood, after death and despair and destruction now I cannot find, I cannot concoct. I've lost my last refuge and tell them I don't think I'm capable of feeling it very soon. Tell them there's only one sole feeling I can experience, like a point-singularity. That is pain. Tell them to hit their heads to a wall for a day or so, until it really bleeds and then think about calling me. Tell them not to try to search for me for I am gone. At least for a while. Tell them I'll one day join, rejoice, regain all that made me. But now I am not me. Me is lost. Me has just been destroyed, pushed to oblivion, thrown over some invisible ledge or boundary marking the beginning of the internal self. Tell them I am nothingness and darkness, tell them I am just a rocking, sobbing, crying pile of carbon and hydrogen someday will recompose itself. And tell them no, they cannot help. No cigarette, no vodka, no sniff, no hug, no kiss on the forehead, no dance, no joke, no whatever they can imagine to cheer me up will help. No, there is only one thing that can help it's the thing that brought me in this little square I so almost invisibly occupy. Tell them not to call for I am no more.