I’m giving you a night call
to tell you how I feel
I want to drive you through the night
and down the hills
I’ve got to tell you something you
don’t want to hear
I’m gonna show you where it’s dark,
but have no fear

There’s something inside you
It’s hard to explain
They’re talking about you, boy
But you’re still the same

...muss es sein? Must it be?

I appreciate that life always has the capacity to surprise. I appreciate that me, the glowing essence, that I am resilient. The me that writes in cryptic words in the middle of night (or on a rainy summer sunday at 10 in the morning, as it were). The me, the me that is primal and urgent and slinkily duplicitous...she lurks.

The dance between superego and id is just something I am growing accustomed to, nothing more. Soap operas and literoticas may play in my head but I am capable of distinguishing the true literature from the smut, the unwanted words that I will not allow to decorate the margins of my life story.

At this point, on this morning, I must admit that I am more interested in the thoughts trapped in the minds of the characters in the stories I read. I want to know their forbidden thoughts.

It grows exceedingly obvious that I was allowed to read too many books and watch too much television when I was a kid.

Deep breaths are necessary at this point. Too much coffee?
Yeah, that’s it.
The strain of attempting normalcy;
the strain of attempting to stay as far the fuck away from normalcy as possible.

Strikethrough text is necessary, at this and all points. O muse...

Speak of the devil
and she will appear

It is an irony (perhaps? never can quite nail that fickle bird down) that the parts of me that are dancing with fate are at the hands of the parts of em that create my fate. It is unfortunate that my id has such a loud voice, outmotoring and outdistancing the rational and reasonable at outstanding paces.

Just keep on singing, give it a try
give it a try.

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