  "....(he) sat in his armchair, trying to allow himself to feel the loss, the pain, yet somehow he couldn't.
He could feel nothing, only a vague uncomfortable guilt at having no feelings. " That's from a short story by Irvine Welsh called "snuff," and i was lying in my bed reading it and it so deeply encompassed where i am, that i had to share it with someone. Lucky you. They say no man is an island, and i suppose it's true, there are "men" around me all of the time, but i am an emotional wasteland. Completely incapable of feeling anything beyond physical hunger, exhaustion and self pity, which i refuse to acknowledge as a real emotion. There is no point to this, no great conclusion, and as far as i can tell the story will end with all the loose threads remaining untied. 
