What am I to do, with the voices in my head, the void in my heart, and the spark in my soul, but to bring what mediocre stories I'm able to machinate to life?
Ah! The narcissism, ever present and integral to that which transpires in the scarce moments of genius.
Oh! The grandstanding, grotesque compensation for a stagnate existence: a grey life, a grey world.
Hah! The ignorance, the bliss what drives the charade onward, blind to the meaning of true greatness.
Someone help me, before I go sane.