And an inky-colored despair of rejection enveloped me like the black tortilla of depression around a pain burrito.

And my life went to pieces, like a love letter in the rain.

. . . a shrunken old man, squashed into the chair like a stubbed-out cigarette.

The pain wasn’t tidal. That was the lesson of the dream which was really a memory. The pain only appeared to come and go. The pain was like the piling, sometimes covered and sometimes visible, but always there.

It was darker than a carload of assholes.

Kristen is looking at me like I'm a plume of smoke in the kitchen, right before you yell fire!