[@Mistiel] This is brutal, but gives clearance for some really beautiful prose.

[i]The night was quiet, and his apartment empty, as always, broken only by the sound of crickets in the park. So curious, Jonathan mused, that we should hold our own voices so dear, yet these most pitiful of beasts sing with the heart's purest joy and carelessness. Are they not to be pitied, living such short lives, to such little fulfillment? Maybe, maybe, but then, they can sing. Jonathan could not. Was not be, then, deserving of greater sympathy, as he, too, would live a very short life, objectively. But so would everyone. All of them would live quiet lives, void of song, of the music of conversation. Jonathan longed for nothing more than a single hour to simply talk to his heart's content, there was so much to be said, his heart felt full to burst. But he'd already used close to four-thousand words, and he wasn't even twenty-five. 

And because he couldnot sing, could not shout, could not scream curses at whatever nameless sick god was responsible, he locked his bathroom door, sat on the floor, and sobbed until the warm tendrils of morning sun crawled through the blinds to brun his hungover eyes.[/i]