I sat at Tim's last night, and yeah, I'd had too much smoke and drink and not enough food, and I was more than a little out of it, unwise. But in addition to the claustrophobic, paranoid feelings, which stay with me a bit today, all I could think is, "Michael is dead. Michael is dead, and I just got out of bed the next day and went on, and I have kept doing this."
And I have. As with every other thing in my life, I've picked up and gone on, without missing a beat. Sure, there are things that I haven't done. But at the end of the day, Michael is dead, and I am here, and life has gone on, and how has this happened?
Sometimes I wonder if anything that I feel is real. I feel like I can't stay in my own skin today, like I can't breathe, and it's only getting worse.
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