I am a cursed man with a touch more shiva then midas. Every beautiful blessing I destroy and am unable to rebuild, but only to further spoil. No blessing have I held lightly, cherised, and treasured. No, I am a destroyer with a grip of iron. In my palms is the gore of that which

I commit my next act of sabotage. I watch the building implode. I create from the rubble. Something inferior to the loss.

My brokenness flaunts itself before me. I hide it, clothe it, and mask it, but it leaks through every veil. Cracks and fissures that reach beyond myself. They run out of me and into all that matters to me, Eroding any good I could do, any good done to me. There is nothing to fix

Fear is a small man in a black suit. He stretches, mutates, and dilates before me. "Focus, you must focus," a little whisper in my ear. I have spent so long accepting his illusions. Where shall I walk? What shall I say? Whom shall I love? He has marked the boundaries. For too long... how

The depths remain unplumbed. The light grows dimmer, with longer shadows cast. Yet the journey remains, long as the Lord tarries. Deeper, Darker, Further.

The brushstrokes fill the canvas. The little darknesses, the little truths exposed. The client, startled, "that looks nothing like me." The artist's reply, "But it is you."

Hope is a small dog on a dirty street. Wrapped in blankets peacefully asleep. Mistress sits beside him with a cup in front. I must live, to look after my dog.

I tried to make myself another. The mask was ready and in place. Yet you could see past the me I made. You bid farewell to the me you saw; now I must bid farewell to the me I made for you.