Wet.

It's been too long since I ignored the outside world and crept in to my insides.
It's been too long since I came up with a peice like The Dead Cinderella, an image of me created by me, but it wasn't me at the time. At the time, it was only a mirage. Now, it's the end of the tunnel.
And let me tell you something.
It's dark down here. There's no light, and my veins are clogged up with jaggard ice, sharp as glass.
Now I'm here, I'm not sure I want to leave, but only because I've forgotten what the daylight looks like, feels like, smells like. Does it have a scent? I think its ugly, but I don't know anymore.
The grass is soft, moist with the entrails of life. It's obscene, but you want to come back, don't you?
Let's paint the walls, smear them with blood, light, and color, the makings of the movement in my own eyes, which are no longer my own. They belong to society, like everyone elses. I see what they want me to see. And by they, of course I mean you.
Something's different. Something has changed. Something is not right.
Something is crawling around in my throat, choking me everytime I open my mouth to speak. I call it The Character, but The Character calls it me.
Cat and mouse. A vicious circle. Catch 22.
You're playing with yourself again.
The Character is everything I used to be, everything I'm going to be, everything I need to be, am wanted to be. But it's not me, because if it was me, I wouldn't have to discard it.
Who's your favorite mistake?
Don't point the finger.
Clench your fist instead.
Fading, slipping, falling, dying, decaying, melting. Humming, skipping, playing, singing, praying, living.
Now, to decide, so I melt or crumble, sink or drown?
Or build, construct. Float, swim.
Kind of the same, really. I've been stuck with these questions for so long that I'm unsure which is better.
We'll have fun, Character.
Let's kill eachother.
Afterall, we're only killing ourselves.