I have but one brainchild--I leave but one thing in the world as a testament that I ever existed--I leave but one child in the world who will probably not live much longer than I. My confession. I write my confession every day--I am sick and sick of writing it, and I cannot put it down, I cannot leave it be--I write and write and I am eternally sick of writing, writing causes me nausea, anguish & sorrow. If I write too much I get a queasy feeling, like I've had too many beers or cigarettes--I find myself going back and back to the page like a dope fiend--and I am exhausted with writing and wish I could cut the cords that bind me to it forever--this is another reason to hope for death. Yes, my children, I leave but one mark upon the world--and a worthless one at that.