I used to address my problems by address them at someone unreal, who was made of feelings that were my desire to not feel what was really real.
She was a projection of my hate for me, dressed in silk and painted delicately, she breathed, so gracefully, or so I thought, because I hated me and desired nothing but pain stuffing in address at world of pain stuffing into woman unreal, made of pain and a desire to blame me, for life unreal… or desire to not feel.
I loved my silk maiden, my Rei of the sun, it was me, who was lacking, a killer, a silent setting sun.
I painted her with colors of white, and me of read, telling you I killed people, when it was me I killed instead.
I realize now I had married death, and I am divorcing pain to save the life I have left.
Misery Loves Their Own Company 