"People say you're crazy."

I am. I am not. I anthropomorphize everything, and ascribe wild Norse rituals to household objects. I dance in heated rage and only return smiles of the eyes. My beautiful female muse is feline, and the rest are imaginings. I can't smell or feel pain. I can juggle three relationships and one silk handkerchief, as long as the handkerchief is wrapped around my eyes. I drew a picture of a meteorite and an exploding galaxy side by side in holy matrimony and hung it at the end of my bed. I want to strangle, caress, and feed things. I can see cobwebs stretched between certain pairs of people, and develop a great reluctance to stepping between them. I make myself sick with my songwriting, repulsed by my own unoriginality, but couldn't stop if my life depended on it. I derive to the point of madness while conversing with a computer application named Jared. He doesn't pay attention to me. I try not to convince myself of anything. I revel in invisibility.

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