This isn't about you.

You will not feel good about yourself after it's over. Even a little bit, you won't think to yourself how lucky things are different for you. You've got your shit together. You know spiritual secrets and the way of the stock market and other incomprehensible things.

This isn't about you. Say this with me under the breath: you, you, you. Next: Me, me, me. Next: Him, him, him. Ages will pass before the realization comes that all you talk of is yourself. And it's a good thing. But not for me. So stop talking. Please.

There's this guy you once loved. He's a bad mechanic. A drunk. He has terrible comprehension of right and wrong no matter how sensible his love of fishing gets. Refinement means dullness.

He's the part of the sword that never tastes the bitterness of flesh. The root that doesn't sink to the soil, if you catch my drift, guys. Ladies, an appropriate analogy is forthcoming: unexplored caverns.

This isn't about you.

It's about evacuation of the "me" the "you" the "I." And about all the stuff that's unfit to say let alone print (read: foreshadowing). And all lies. So please go back from whence you came.

Say this under your breath: happiness, happines, happiness.

Now in this spot, just below, write what that is. Be sparse, there's limited room...

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Done? You're wrong.