Do Not Follow In His Footsteps

There is always a way out, my friend, no matter how bleak the path seems. The rooftop will not console you, the pavement is not your escape. Do not listen to my past lies: The smiling blade will not comfort you in the middle of a sweat choked night, it will only rip open old wounds better left forgotten and scabby. The cigarette butt still lit will not imprint glowing marks onto your pale skin, only angry welts you will be ashamed of in the morning, only to repeat the motions later that same evening. The end is never the answer, my friend, and one day, you will believe me.