Some call me a genius.
Some call me insane.
My friends say I'm a tragedy.
My parents say I'm just a little eccentric.
Tell me what you think.
I am nothing but a puppet.
Being handled and tossed around.
After awhile I'm just set aside.
I'm diverting at first, almost enjoyable, but, in the end, a bitter pill to all.
I apperceive no need to breath.
I have to necessitate my lungs to swell with air, then to shrivel, and epitomize the essence of life.
That's where my eloquence comes from, or it's the insanity. I'm not sure.
In my frigid, obscured, irrecoverable mind, insanity is eloquence, eloquence is tragedy, and tragedy is beauty.
I exist for the darkest of romances, the most distorted of lives.
It brings me what's closest to a sense of your "well-being".
I hate, therefore, I love.
So if I love hate, then, I love circles.
That's what my love is, a circle.
The grasps of reality, though persistent, quickly overwrought and became transient to me not very recently, but not too long ago.
I will abruptly tear down and rip to shreds any mark of social normality in or around me.
Now, will you decide whether I live or die?
Or shall I for you?

He sees her dancing.
He wants to tell her.
He wants to let her know.
But the world won't allow.
“It could never work,” says the world behind windows.
Watching.
Waiting.
Waiting for the upcoming tragedy.
His heart says different.
His heart says to tell her and it'll all work out.
He knows he can trust his heart.
After all,
it's His.
He tells her without anymore hesitation.
Shock filled the young girl's eyes.
A sign of recognition...
or was it?
Was it a sign of confusion?
Frustration?
Then nothing.
No Word.
Next day, he sees her dancing.
Then forgets.