… about my early hours, pale-faced and grey, i spoke to myself in a most schizophrenic way, having named them each accordingly, i stood to gain nothing but tilted heads and narrowed gazes and covert conversations as i turned. what brewed, what i so rabidly concocted, was of naught more than misinterpretations of a simple situation, but the impact was surely that – and floored i was by possibility.
in conjunction with a demented perspective, i frolicked with a fire wrongly forged, enjoying the heat all too entirely, until the puzzle pieces had been wrested into the miscalculated homes where i believed they should so belong. the results were messy. i tore any definition of rationality out of my existence; “evil rages and peddles throughout every human body,” i held, “and begs to be leaked onto whatever it may.”
this was my sanity, my precious product of so many years refining. joy was relative; “joy is truth.”

cold, poignant truth.