Imagine being in conflict with yourself and if you didn't exist, the others would have written your part and created you anyway. I wish I were some oily, blood-matted brute, razor sharp bullhorns, some Minotaur-like beast that walks the lonely white sands of the earth and clubs people to death with an Ox leg I found but I'm not.
I'm likely a microchip, a particle in a hologram screen, a time-traveler and interdimensional, interplanetary explorer, an elite terraformer who harvests data, I like the pretty cascades of waterfalls and silver forests, I never do my real job, I don't always miss the vapors of caustic acid, the quiet plumes of red smoke that emit from the volcanos on Mars, the craters and the lake, 1939 seemed magical, Dali's "Ballerina in a Death's Head" is one of my favorite paintings, that's art, art is beauty and beauty will save the world, those thoughts are a forbidden indulgence, beings are beings, I would die at the foot of your altar in your church rather than abandon it.