If you happen to ask what one half of me thinks of other I would ponder upon the perplexity, that to think less of me would mean that I don't think of me at all.
Slowly seeping, deeper into the ether, toward the sleeping creature.
The Keeper of Neither.
I can wash it off but it's all for naught, It's in my skin now. Spent too long on the wrong end of upside down. Never have I ever made or heard a sadder sound than when I finally got a grip just to watch it still slip and shatter on the ground.
Am I lost or just waiting to be found?
So here I am sitting in my throne of obsidian, drinking damnation as I dine on oblivion. Self proclaimed king with a paper mache crown.