this is about self-indulgence. of course it is.
why else would i take the trouble, if it didn't do something major for my ego?
it's exhibitionism, playing to your voyeurism.
it's my need to sound out, and yours to judge.
these words won't change either.
this isn't honesty, because it's soaked in vanity. but the little shreds of me are real.
otherwise hidden little shreds.
i could go back into the painting i came from,
where the colours have melted into each other
and appear as infinite tiny grains on the canvas
i could be a grain. again.
but the more i see the end of my sanity,
the closer i am to fine?
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