Only here,

in solitude have I met myself, overcome by my own fragrances. 

Only here, 

in solitude, I truly see the nature of those around me.

Only here,

the polar rhythms of a world starving, does my soul feel.

When I leave solitude,

the world rushes back in






Beyond what is seen, lie shadows by which all things operate.” -beth

Half himself.

Half nightmare.

Half dream.

Half truth.

Half lies. 

A body of cloth, 

heads hollow, designed to be fitted over and over, manipulated by the hand. 

They are all an extension of the another. 

They follow what has already begun. 

They enforce what the other has made possible.

They are the puppets to another’s desire,

They are the story to an already written plot.

Puppets pulled by different strings.

The same cancer, just a different strain.