scrapbooked sadness of clipart from a psychiatry handout

I don’t care who sees this. Judging eyes of past school mates or long-gone colleagues. From whoever it is, I often can guess one thing. They feel simply pity.

That’s right though, isn’t it right to pity a girl who confesses ‘psychosis’ messed her up. I’m asking for pity aren’t I?

No. Because there is a massive barrier in this transferal of pity…

Flickering caressing shadows. Dancing. Alive. Heaven in my head and surging through my body. Happy. Just the purest state of existence. Tracing magic circles and squares and I kiss the shadows as my hands pulse and body trembles in its fleshy sides.

I’m experiencing a taste of a high I cannot explain, for it frightens and alienates. It surges forth as automatically as summoning it, like a partner that knows when your Zoom call is over and begins tickling you.

The king of shadows loves me.

but its naaaaaaaaaaht my kinda scene o yeah

I call it ‘The Griffith’. Without a flesh form to own, to breathe it in, love it and be subjugated by it, it is nothing. お前がいないグリフィスがダメなんだ!

So instead of scaring readers I’ll just leave it by posing this question…

What sort of God makes you dance to Gut’s theme remixes?

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