Thursday, the 29th day of September in the year 2005

I am a hateful man.

I hate time. I hate it with every fiber of my being. I hate it for slipping through my fingers without her. She is real. Rematerialized as though the seventy-years have meant nothing to her. She is not a vampire. Ursula. My Ursula. Is she a ghoul? She refuses to tell me, she does not wish to tell me. I will not pry.

I hate war. I hate those people who went to war with one another over petty happenstances. It resulted in her running from the bombings with the sky ablaze. I ran after her, I ran looking for her - through the forest and the trees. I did not find her, she tells me she was lost. I do not know what this means. Did she run into another who gave her the chains? Did they enslave my Ursula? Did they steal my Ursula?

I hate who stole her from me. She is mine. I look at her and I find myself jealous. Jealous of who might have spent so much time with her, by herself, without her children that she was separated from. Children I took care of, put them through school, becuase they were hers. I find myself jealous and resentful of where she was. Somewhere in the ether, in thin air, because they jealously guarded that secret from me.

I hate myself. I hate myself for what I could never be.