The only moment of respite for me is bedtime. Isolated in my tiny dark room as I hear the rain out there, sitting in the comfy reading chair, not having to give an account of myself to anyone else, under the spell of an illusory instinct of safety, reduced to a minimal space and a minimal presence, everything in sight, and of course the promise of sleep, the great reliever. Putrid comfy. It's pleasant in theory, in practice too, but you know hoe bad things have to get so an adult man has to seriously concern himself with comfiness. The stink of death overwhelms me. This comfort is but a consolation price. I am The Raped.