Ting-a-ling

"One of the things which danger does to you after a time is -- well, to kill emotion. I don't think I shall ever feel anything again except fear. None of us can hate anymore -- or love."

I don't think I shall ever feel anything again except fear.

Here's the thing: danger is a byproduct.

Here's the thing: self-manufactured byproducts are slurped down everyday.

Here's the thing: it's slurped down by absolutely everyone.

Just this moment, I've given a title to what it is that's kept me awake for a week. Just this moment, I've figured it out. Just this moment, it's advanced upon me with little knives drawn, it's carved me like a goose, it's hurt me nonchalantly in its business suit and tie.

It's self-destruction. It's what I've become. A walking-spidery glob of self-destruction.

"There is no love in your violence."

I know there isn't! Listen to me: ting a ling. Listen to me: close my eyes and carry on screaming.

Listen very closely: I am at my rope's end.

I've been playing charades with happiness. I've been putting on a stage performance when it comes to glee.

I'm pretty good, aren't I? No one even noticed when I played my little rhyme and cranked the handle until the clown popped out. Scissors-stick. I'm very pleased that you never found prosecutionable evidence of my weakness.

"I will show you fear in a handful of dust."

Press the repeat button. Only one fleshbag has ever looked through poetic annals of pointless drivel because he wanted to. In there he maybe found the thirteen keys to who I am. Maybe. He is a shrewd fleshbag. So unlike all the other fleshbags; so like this fleshbag. I like that fleshbag. More I...that fleshbag.

I wish that fleshbag could be with this fleshbag now.

And anger flares!

And depression flares!

Listen to me: I am at my rope's end.