You've got to get away from me, because I have leprosy. You've got to pay me for all of the sins I committed in the dark alleyways of your subconscious. You've got to wash away all of the things I wrote on the walls of your apathy, because you might start to feel and no one wants that.

What are you afraid of? Try living for a living. Try breathing. Try to climb out of the tomb that encircles us all and let me know if you make it because I want out too.

Don't touch me . . . I have leprosy and a violent streak.