'Tis such an unfortunate diagnosis; the soul being devoured by the mind. 'Tis such an unfortunate prognosis; the soul having naught but a brief moment left.

I speak of this Ultimate Loss. I speak of this Ultimate Failure. I speak of the Hell that binds me--this curse that defines me, as it slowly consumes everything I've become.

Many would see Death as a curse, yet I see it as a relief. Many would fear this Great Fall, yet I welcome it; anything is better than this. Anything is better than this Hell I've built up around me, surrounding me, binding me to a life of absolute torture.

So again, I close my eyes to this world and return to my fantasy, hoping somewhere therein I'll find the cure to my curse--the cure to this disease that consumes me from the inside out.

There's but naught left to hold, to claim, to love nor to protect, as my desires, my dreams, my hopes to which I cling, slowly fade away.

Unto nothing.

This loneliness, this painfulness, this absolute barbaric suffering is my Curse. This is my life. This is me.

The diagnosis is unsettling. The prognosis... gave me too much time to live.

Too much time to suffer.

Too much time to die.

This curse is my fatality. This fatality is my finality, as I await the word from whom I cling, I love, I desire and I respect. Her word is my antidote. Her word is my medication. Her word is my drug to ease the pain, the suffering, and to make this traversal between worlds painless.

Some knew her as the source of my infection. I say she's the embodiment of my affection.

If only she could be my rectification. If only she could be my validation, my designation, or the one to guide me between lands.

For once, help I do not give, but need. For once, assistance I do not provide, but require. For once, I'm the one in pain. I'm the one in need. I'm the one who isn't free.

This is my infection. This is my curse. This is my prognosis, my diagnosis, and the last moments I can cherish.

This is me, unfortunately.