The events it takes to prove that you are not a good person, the ones neither dares to speak of. Bitter cold settling in. Bones grinding away at each other like lepers in a pus pool. Many days of my own existence is the sentence from which I cannot stray. The never mornings. The die nights. Its a silly little trick some silly boy plays on a broken dog. Turns out mean and hard - you've seen the movie about the train tracks and the tennis shoes. Its poor luck you see. 

How are my cognitive therapy exercises going you ask? Lighting the fire. Some folks won't be helped. Some folks can't be helped. I'll leave you to decided which am i. Either way. You're probably right.