“What can change the nature of a man?”
Bone weary. The threads that bind the ideal to the original keep unraveling. Fruitless, I find my hands poised always underneath my chin. Eyes ceraceous as the blood of a votive candle. I search the morning for coherence. Thoughts black flies ricocheting foolishly against a pane of unwashed glass. I am the definition of insanity. The hopeful, repetitious perfectionist that constructs keys for fictitious doors. I watch from on high, wool stuffed into every orifice. Is this what it means to be a dreamer? To exist wholly within the heart, mind a hurricane, reality a dimension over?