I have always felt wrong, somehow. I feel like there is a black between my eyes. A ink shadow on the mind grown there with herbalistic care when I was young. Imagine dipping your fingers in pitch and holding it upright, watching it drip infinitively downwards and covering you like liquid latex. I am no sociopaths and empathy is, I think, with in my skillset, but of creature kind, I care little.
Is this what it means to be a monster? Or is this sentiment, or lack of, share by all humanity and we merely wear the same mask povertous of the knowledge of everyone else's disguise? I maybe under some strange illusion brought about by my uncouth habbit of overthinking. IT just feels that way.
I don't know. Ugh. This post sponsored three cents at a time by the ads above, unseen by ad blockers. Expect Portraits this week as I have no script for what happens next, yet.
Peace Ouch, yo.