Everything is utterly perfect as I wallow in my emptiness own world. I was away for decades. Where was I? Do I even know? Yes, I do. Perfectly well. Too perfectly well. I'd drifted out of my own state of mind, and into reality. After seeing the world for many years in only black, white and blood, it was hard to witness a rainbow of repetition that was proof of how brilliantly disgusting real this world can be. I hate reality. It's not me. I want to be who I am in the remains of my shattered Y. I know I have one, or at least pieces. There's something there. I'm not trying to fool anyone. I'm not trying to avoid who I really am. Or am I? What if I'm fooling myself? I try to be honest, but maybe I'm trying too hard, and it's turning into the opposing effect, and I'm just rambling on about something that doesn't exist. Something that's not part of reality. But maybe that's what I'm trying to do. Maybe that's what I am. Not part of reality. I hate reality. fuck reality. Where I live is much better. I am moving back there, soon. To darkness. Me. Where only I am welcome. Simply because where anyone else is, I am not welcome. I am hated, therefore I hate. And I hate alot. I hate reality. I hate colorful spectrums of fuckfaces that enrage me so much I could tear every part of my body into pieces so that there's nothing left of me, but a shredded corpse. Skin, hair, and a bloody mess. What would be the difference? That's all that I am now. And I like it that way. It's better for me to be the way that I am now. Already dead...

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