Narcissistic. Addicted to yourself and your own image. In fact it’s not an addiction it’s an infection. A virus, airborne acquired and involuntarily digested. Morals live immortal and prevail over seething intentions, burning through veils of dreams suspended. Go get it. Freedom in expression. Bodies are prison for our souls, weakness floods that which is flawless. Trapped in a silent cobweb of distraction drowning in an inch of water. Drowning in shallow. Demented to an extent I guess. Can’t help it. But I wanted things to be like this. Hold me down as I rise because I can’t see past the end of my own path. I couldn’t script this, I insist you listen as I often plead an empty suit case. You believe the luggage is weighty but I pack light, life made me this way. I’m not tangled or trapped. I’m not oblivious to facts. I’m not tied up in lies I can’t comprehend because instinct is all I need in the end. I don’t absorb truth I bleed it, the blood intermingles with the pus of infected wounds, heals and it soothes and eventually you’re a part of me, like it or not. You harbor contempt, but your idiosyncrasies make no sense. I plead insanity, these things don’t stick to me.