Anything is possible and yet ill luck seems to have grasped me tightly, and I am sinking with the spell, this damnation that shocks my body I cannot remain placid though pretend otherwise I will. The joys and delights turn to misery when I find that nothing is predictable and the predictable I never wanted becomes a chore, boring and stale and yet I have to take a bath and it is a bath that will never come. Staleness in my flesh, my spirit, my heart and each day becomes more and more of a worry, a loathsome thing to behold because I have seen too much, know too much, experienced too much and I am tired of your lies.