I come back from rehearsal with a throbbing headache. Recording starts Sunday, in 48 hours, thus the entire week of nothing but 1, 2, let's play it again and again and again.
Two songs in particular, more than the others, song's I'd written Friday, rewritten Saturday and hated by Sunday.
"She's Lost Control" and "Candidate." I regretted them instantly, they were not mine to claim but hers.
Her, I tried not to think of her, for somehow I missed her as if she had been part of me before I even existed. But she is a wound I cannot not heal, instead I had let it bleed and used her pain to overshadow mine. She'll run out of blood and If I were guilty of charge I would not be able to take it. Her brilliance must shine on, if I could give my life for her to be joyous, I would. But everything I touch I wither, just like Debbie.
I should turn myself in, find a gun to set me free. Oh, what a coward. A foolish, good for nothing, coward.

"Ian, you're not supposed to drink, you know that."
I put down the near-empty bottle of whiskey, "there's a lot of things I'm not supposed to do Deb.
My existence itself is a mistake."