There is something wrong here. I don't know what it is. I don't know who I am. Molten construct of perverted crystal, I shirk and tower at once - Light strikes my back and the sun warms me, but I cast a tall shadow nontheless. I am meaningless. Impertubable. Ghostlike, wrapped in an engima tied up with lies. WHy? Where is my reality?
I wish that I could take back my life. Turn back the clock. Burn the history books and strike memory from mind until all that remained was a little curl of ash and a gready wisp of smoke drifting out the window.
Then my real work could begin.
No matter what I do, I trip over myself at every turn. I build walls between me and my bed. I taste rainbows on my thumb and my soul burns white-hot. I CANNOT SEE THE LIGHT.
I hate myself. I need to redeem myself. Actions cannot be undone, the best option is to simply burn bridges and fall into ruin. Find a new canvas, tear off the wallpaper, for no amount of scrubbing will clean these stains. Rattle the foundations and pull up my roots.
New York is not my home.