Stop the ride, I want to get off.

I went to the Mental Health Clinic today.
But now I feel crappy. And I mean fucking crappy.
Like I want to-well, you know what I mean.

I don't know why. I am calm, collected. I know exactly what to do, how to do it. None of them know. I can't tell them.

Francis hasn't noticed. I've not hidden the emptiness in my voice. He feels pretty down. It was the anniversary of his uncle's death.

I'm hallucinating. I'm seeing things out of the corner of my eye, just little things, not enough for me to say that it's a spirit or anything.

I want to tell him, I guess. But not. He can't talk me out of it. I don't want him to try, or to know.

Things are looking up. And yet I'm feeling worse. A few weeks, and I could feel better. I don't want to wait. I'm going to Wales in a week and a half. Do I want to wait until afterwards? No.

Stop the ride, I want to get off.