Sing to me again.

I want to see in your mind more than I did.
I want to know what you know.
Because I won't think you're crazy.
Because they think I'm crazy.
"Sketched out."
No. I'm not.
I know this to be true.
No, I don't want to talk about it.
No, I don't want you to agree with it.
But I don't want you to call me crazy.
"To go insane you must, at some point, be sane."
Maybe I was.
Maybe I never was.

Maybe you feel just like me. Maybe no one does.
I think the latter.

I've got my hand over my heart. The beating is there, but just barely. It's too faint to be real.

The lack of blood is inhuman.

Three degrees off normal.

Lock me up and throw away the key. I know you want to.

This is only getting worse.
My mind is only getting scarier.

Tell me it freaks you out, imagine how I feel.
I'm stuck with it eating away at me 24 hours a day. 7 days a week. 52 weeks a year.
I can't get away. Ever.

I'm creating a new world. A small imaginary one with angry people. The way people look without their masks.
The way they talk without the recordings.

It's mean and angry and intolerable and I love it.