Fevered, I wrap myself in lies and absolutions. I am not what I am, but a sum of the sad cliches that have led me onward. Truth falls around me, gathering at my feet like a technicolor dream coat. You lie? Of course you lie. I lie? Sometimes, indeed, I do. I am made of thatch and rosemary. I am hidden from your view and lost in a forest of deceit. I want nothing. I need nothing. Shadows morph into phantasms too dire to contemplate. I tear at my skin. I am on a quest for destruction.
Green pastures. I remember them well. They are memories, crushed now with skyscrapers, ash, and soot. All has been sullied. Nothing pure remains. I feel the needle deep in my vein and hold on for one more day. One more chance to betray myself. I will take it gladly.
You think I don't remember. But I do. In bits. In drabs and scraps. I remember summer fields of alfalfa and innocence. They mock me now. They disgust me. I will lie in my room. I will let the weight of lost abandon press upon my chest. I will try to breathe and fail and my heart will pound with the sound of defeat.