“My relationship with reality is far from tenacious, therefore I don’t really hope anything. I’m not even sure if or why I’m participating in the whole ordeal in the first place. But I also don’t ponder it. Except for when I contemplate suicide. That’s when my feelings begin to reel. Do you ever hope that you’re dead, strange voice?” A considerable period of silence passed before the cryptically attractive voice responded to my response and answered my inquiry. “No. I don’t habitually hope I am dead, because it is something far too easily accomplished to waste any time hoping for, I mean, just grab a knife motherfucker, put the dream to bed, eat a dick!” He began to sob. I hung up.