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Shapes of every size move behind my eyes; doors inside my head, bolted from within. Every drop of flame lights a candle in memory of the one who lived inside my skin. I can tell you why people go insane; I can tell you how you could do the same. I can tell you why the end will never come...
Only the inscription, in lover's blood, of the 1593 madrigal "Lady Those Eyes" on foreskin parchment will force God to tell the truth.
It is akin to keeping the world's most objectionable goldfish.
Sentences that unwrite themselves in coruscating sheets of white noise.
The wind is loud and sometimes pungent.
Welcome, o twitchy one!
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