Look at all the fine friends I have. As children do you think that they were taught about suffering? I think, perhaps, it has been harder to be the one holding my hand. What ho! Another missed dinner? Where have I been? But then, what have they lost? It’s everything on the other side of my coin. I cannot see it but I can feel it be; the void in the air on the other side of the  wall, closely I lean my ear and listen to the deep and arduous silence. Do they ever say my name? I imagine it crosses their lips. No shred of pity, I’ve felt none, thus my Remorse is foul and kept in the garbage can across the street- which is : away, with the reach of its putrid stench the closest it could ever be. To my friends, Thank you.