I'd like to think I'm cold and calculating and unwavering, sometimes I'd wished I was like the people who hurt me, always looking for the next, never understanding or having to retravel the damp, crushed paths of destruction that leaked from the soles of their shoes, never caring to turn and see the thick, salty metal smoke choking it's way through the light. But, I am a lover. A dreamer of only the most sweet, silver realities, realities that are, to most, wildest dreams. I write letters and excerpts, often to people I've never met, often in the position of who I dream to become, often like a madwoman. It terrifies me, how I so often go limp and dazzled by men like gods, on covers, who's voices lull my aching showgirl heart into an almost always fitful sleep, but that I can't get over ever, and I know he'll love me too one day, crying out my name in his virile, fiery tone, to the screeching excitement of electric guitars. Do you let yourself give in to your insanities? Can you claim them for your own, dance with them, let them burst free into your every other area of normalcy? I do, I can, I always have. I am the girl turning the corner, the flashing, fleeing green and red lights in the sky, the faint sound of applause you know is coming from somewhere where incredible things are happening. I've been the hate, and the sick, and the lust, I have hot blood and a heart, and they are pumping, always pumping.