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160 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1992
World #44
His struggle was long and well documented. A lot of people passed through his life. There were long stretches of brightness, times when I thought he wasn’t human. The way he could keep going when it made me tired just to watch. His grip was at times, unbelievable. His rise was a lesson to all. A slap to the face of anyone who ever doubted him. His ascension was like an iron fist punching through the sky. His driving force was rage. When he achieved anything, he would think to himself that he had beaten them again—he had proven himself to them all. When he was low on inspiration, he would think of them and his desire to utterly destroy them, and a surge of energy that he could barely contain would shoot through him. At times he felt absolutely electric—incredibly strong. There was a dangerous and negative after-effect to all this. He suffered periods of depression that made it hard to breathe. At times he thought that he would kill himself. For years he had tried to relate to women. He was always unsuccessful. No matter whom he met, after a short time, he felt distant and alienated. They never understood his need to confront. His need to challenge. When he would tell them that he wanted to die all the time, that there was beauty in pain, they never understood. In his mind, there was only truth. He ignored any suggestion that was ever offered him. He prided himself in being able to take the punishment year after year. The secret was that he had no fear of death. He was truly ready to die at all times. He hated life. He had pure contempt for it. His conduct bordered on violent paranoia. No one understood what he was after. You should have heard all the bullshit that dropped out of their mouths when they talked about him. Like they could ever last a minute in his shoes. Like they ever could experience the pain thresholds that he had. He knew things they never would.