At some point you're forced to clean up your own mess. Twenty some odd years of repressed objections, apologies never made, spilt milk.
You always pay. Always.
There isn't any sort of "starting over."
You and I, we occupy the same same space. I cannot move without striking you, we cannot find a balance.
I am not in my right mind. They told me this would happen. The honeymoon is over.
I am afraid that there isn't a single square foot of earth that hasn't already been tread upon. Discovered. There isn't anywhere to run to. There has to be a different plain of some kind. A different dimension. We have to make a transition, you and I.
I have to use the same body and the same mind for everything that I do. I can't switch whenever I feel there might be a better tool for whatever the task might be.
You have to kill swiftly and mercilessly, otherwise they always come back to get you.
I'll be apologizing for one thing or another until the day I leave you with a corpse to look after. I am sorry that my time is finite.
Please be. Only be.