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I despair sometimes.

Like now. There's something I'm doing wrong. I have to figure it out by myself, I know that much.

I have to assume that the leads I was pursuing were the wrong ones when they told me I was mistaken.

To the gates of hell I go for a look into your eyes, for a word.

Even if that word is goodbye.

Which would mean I'd still wait. I will not cheapen myself and somebody else by trying to put a replacement. A woman likea spare part? Hell, no!

And anyone can call me an exacting singleton. My mind's made up.

We're not children anymore. We know of that mistake of using people as spare parts.