(what I'm listening to at the moment, along with "Criminal", "Tomorrow, Wendy", and a few other such songs)

He's crying.

I can taste his tears from here.

I can feel him sobbing.

I spin music, watch him, touch him, and I think that maybe he understands enough to keep me from going mad.

I think, I pray, that he knows he's crying tears because I cannot.

I want his tears. I need them. If I am not to cry, then I will have the tears some other way... I will draw them from his body and his mind and his heart.

I will rip them out as I just had mine ripped out.

I haven't cried yet.

Haven't said farewell.

Haven't done anything you do at a funeural. None of it. None of it, nothing, dead and dying and GODS, I'm down right now.

Depression.

That's all this is, right? Pot and depression.

Nothing more.

Couldn't be real.

Couldn't possibly be that I'll keep dreaming of Angel forever, couldn't possibly be that I'll find my pain, my tears, somewhere else and leave my life behind in payment.

Couldn't happen like that.

Couldn't.

"I told the priest / don't count on any second coming / God got his ass kicked / the first time he came down here slumming / he had the gall to come, the balls to die and then forgive us / though I don't wonder why, I wonder what he thought it would get us..."

Yeah. Depression. And I was so happy earlier...