Feed me your lies. Nourish me with nothing. I don't want to hear you spitting fire.
She is a liar.
The cold night devours me. Personalities abound. Why won't you kill me? In my sleep?
Stare into my dream. I don't know how long I can go without strangling you.
The voices in my head are getting louder.
You are my vile fiction.
When I look at you my dreams collapse, my ambitions collapse . . .
He will play that fiddle until the boat crosses into the place where dreams disappear.
I do not write fiction, I write anti-fiction. I am anti-dream, anti-fantasy, anti-escapist, anti-happiness. I am all of the negative forces the mind can conjure up.
I am sad that you cannot be here with me in this world where I've run wild for years. I am sad that I am imprisoned, that I am a criminal and that I am being held hostage like so many others. Take this message in a bottle and run.
Terrible tastes infiltrate the area where he used to rest his appetite.
This is decay. His home is in decay and there is nothing that he can do to stop it--it is natural.
The captain has lost his way. There are no corpses to call his own. There are no saviors as far as he can see. There are no idols in this land. He fears that he has killed what he loves. He fears what he cannot see.
She will do for now. She will do until we can find the one that we are looking for.
He divides his personalities into separate compartments so that he can keep them straight--so that when the authorities come he will know what to say. He will have his story straight and they will leave him alone--at least that is what he hopes for. He is a tortured man. He is tortured by his own confusion.
He is a constant disillusion. He cannot think to save his life. He is a ball of pain.
When she comes around--the ground erupts with carnage. She is the keeper.
The assasin lurks below. The assasin has no face. There is no scapegoat. The assasin is an illusion, a trick, a metaphor, an excercise in human survival. Without the assasin there is no narrative. Keep the assasin close.
