I'm covered in the nagging feeling that I'm doing something wrong; but that can't be right. I mean, I've got the means to be mean but what does that even mean? I'm tired of pushing buttons when the reward is something I can't eat. My elbows are on the table, covering this copied face and schmoozing with painted breasts, pushing through the slats of my ribcage without mercy, since I'm merciless against myself.

And it's funny when I lie, because I do it to make myself feel better.

I'm cutting out the nonsense, making it nonsensical to even think of looking back. My brilliance is to be found ahead, or so I tell myself. In actuality it's to be found inside my head. I wipe away the sludge and only eat what's clean so I don't lose sight of the light, which is pristine all on its own.

Hold on a second, reverse things just a bit. Who am I? Where am I to come from? Who am I to change anyone, or anything?

That's just it: I am anyone, and also anything.

My power is parallelled only by those who also know that we are one and the same. Unfortunately I live and love with those who only approach obstacles that they know they can surmount.

They created a paradox that is working against them, and I created one that looks just like me.