Reaching for his pen, he then commenced to try to write the story of his life. Working all day and sleeping all night, what was there to say, what was there to write? Loving is for rich men, hating is for poor men, money is for fighters, crying is for writers. Living in the sadness of his own little world, his face never seen, his voice never heard. An endless stream of sorrow flows, a victim of a life he chose. Might as well write about the working of a 40 horsepower combustion engine. Putting down his pen, he turned and said, I want to live but I wish I were dead. I want to live but I wish I were dead.
