The night is empty. I sit on a green couch. The traffic of a grand boulevard passes before me. My soul is empty. I have become my own worst nightmare. My charms continue to feed this perfectly delusional existence. Somebody slap my hand back. Hide the goddamn cake. The infection continues to spread into yet another life. I insist on a new brain. One that doesn't placate, or doubt, or give a royal fuck about anything. My pride should be an indignant Queen. A noble ruler that lances the heads off of lovers, and dreamers. A cold rock to replace my heart is necessary. Let me spend my money on courtesans and jewels. Frolic with the wicked. Eat the poets. My house has caught fire, my child has been torn apart by wolves. My husband hit by a speeding devil, and yet, unlike Job I have not been dealt a better hand. I deny my throne by ignoring my place as a tyrant. I should rage more. Hate the world. Reject people. Care only for plants, animals, and fortresses. Yes, my life should be filled with the complete excess of my ego for I have turned into a sniveling thing- a wrinkle of a person, a speck of dirt, and that my friend is just as bad as being wicked.
