Warning: Do not buy this book! You'll regret it, much like I should regret my life. I've truly gone around the bend, however, and I will attempt to tilt my nose gleefully into the howling tunnel of the beast with what's left of it. You don't want this. Trust me; this one's no good for you. Part yearning fantasy, part terrible reality, this is the kind of thing that makes people say, "Well, no wonder he killed himself. Did you read this stuff?" This the kind of book that most people throw away from themselves like it's on fire, once they get an idea of the poison they are unsuspectingly ingesting. You want a breakdown? I'll give you a breakdown: Me, me, me: I'm sad and crippled. Me, me, me: I'm broken and lonely. Me, me, me: I'm drunk and angry. Me, me, me: Oops! I've overdosed and destroyed my mind, and I never took the time to sit and think, for even one second, so I could see it coming. This is a cautionary tale against insanity and the death of soul, which most people are skilled or lucky enough not to need. If you are like me-- twisted enough to actually enjoy shit like this-- then stick with a writer who actually had or has some discipline for their talent, like Poe, Bukowski, PK Dick, or Palahnuik.