I approach most desires like a competition; can I **** better than him; can I be famous at twenty- -three since he was famous at twenty-four -- I must be able to sink better than him.
God, it is exhausting. I feel like I'm dancing with a machine; a phantom that I can never catch, for it runs on my blood; my insecurities; my passion -- and, boy, oh boy, can I attest to having plenty of that stuff, ladies and germs.
I think, truly, that I am encompassing the American Dream I think is utterly flawed; that I think is futile in nature; that I am sure of is the closest thing to Hell, in this Godless, spiritually motherless dark shoebox of sudden collisions; this space of useful and useless results, splayed onto and into our hearts, asking for reverence.
There is nothing I want more than to be sure that my importance is not illusory. I am not sure if I am real.