In the darkest hour, the writer inside doth return.

It's like schizophrenia - always yet never alone. I always have the writer. The last resort. The one piece of me I can keep, hidden if needed. Every great alter ego, every Mr. Hyde, every bad side of the schizo needs a fuel to feed off of. The writer's is pain, of course.

You know when something or someone dies. There is a sense of finality about it. It takes some time to come to terms with it, understand and absorb what it truly means, but some part of your consciousness knows it / they ain't coming back. Ever. I think it starts out the exact opposite when it is something inside. You know something has died, some part of you. But the first reaction is drama - 'this has changed me forever. I will never be the same person again'. But one does revert, even if only partially. Some things get lost forever, but some come back.

Who knows, eh, what goes and what stays?

^