A tenuous grip on reality, pulled back by the arrow of a madness, ended up shot into the chest of the fantasy.

" But, I thought we..."

What the created cannot do is think; the imagination is incapable of self-duplication.

" But, I'm..."

And in the case it were to suggest such a thing, it has already become a dangerous entity.

" Please, you're..."

As all imaginations are capable of harboring such notions, that which does not exist must be destroyed.

The flame must be doused with water; the heavens must be blocked by the popcorn-textured ceiling. Imagination is

What is...?


Who cares for such things, anyway?

Who cares for anything, anyway?

I can't bring myself to, yet I've found that I don't care any more.

I can't care any more.