There isn’t a damn thing wrong with you except that you think you’re a failure. You’re not, of course, but as a result of thinking you are you’ve scratched the surface of your mind all over, and when you sit here like this, looking out at the rain, you keep rubbing it so that it doesn’t heal. Booze, lovemaking, and hard work - they keep your hands away from the sore surface, and then it heals of its own accord.