Ripped from the pages of "Seymour an Introduction" (J.D. Salinger) Please read every word and you will finally know what it is like to be me.

"...in English, a Sick Man who not at all seldom, though he's reported so childishly denies it, gives out terrible cries of pain, as if he would whole-heartedly let go both his art and his soul to experience what passes in other people for wellness, and yet (the rumor continues) when his unsalutary-looking little room is broken into and someone-not frequently, at that, someone who actually loves him-passionately asks him where the pain is he either declines or seems unable to discuss it at any constructive critical length,

and in the morning when even great poets and painters presumably feel a bit more chipper than usual, he looks more perversely determined to see his sickness run it's course, as though by the light of another, presumably working day he had remembered that all men, the healthy ones included, eventually die, and usually with a certain amount of bad grace, but that he, luckily is being done in by the most stimulating companion, disease or no, he has known."