"That the Everlasting had not fixed His canon 'gainst self-slaughter!"

. . .

"Vanity of vanities," says the Preacher. "All is vanity!"*

. . .

I've been thinking too much. Help me.

. . .

What am I without words?
Others's words?
Copy and paste, copy and paste, copy and--
Pastel my mind with your philosophies,
For I am made of mirror neurones, feeling
What is not mine,
Empty with empathy.
I don't deserve your grief,
And I can't say I'm worth your pound of flesh.
Your stars are my pixels,
Your prison is my escape.
I wear your truth like veil--a lie.
Tear me in half,
Crack the cornerstone,
Break my mind palace; my temple.
Write on my heart, my mind, again.
Write these words