Maybe, maybe not. It isn't as if it's been off my mind for the past two months.

[ Black scrawl creeps up over his clothes, over his skin. He can only look down tired at them, unable to control it or hide it. Just like most things in his life, whispers the ever-present voice -- you wear your filth as openly as you do your sleeves, it purrs. NO ANSWERS, it reads, NO ESCAPE. ]

If it were as easy as wishing them away, I wouldn't have gotten into half the trouble that I have, I think. Maybe even a quarter.