I am doomed to repeat my mistakes, to babble the same self-trusted nonsense until it becomes more than my desires - my reality. I am suspended in hope without a trace of cynicism or doubt, at least not six out of seven days, at least not when the sun is up and my mouth is dry. I am a leaden dog chained to what I hope I'll enjoy. I scrape place to place, bed to bed, my own too uncomfortable, still too foreign, not yet trusted.