"I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh."

I must get back my soul from you; I am killing my flesh without it.

Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.

The darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.

Your room is not your prison. You are.

It's as if all my senses fed involuntarily on him and deprived for more than a few hours, I languish, wither, die to the world.

I am myself. That is not enough.