Mad writer in love with subject, such a beautiful boy, open up and be real with yourself. You’re really confusing. Your off-balance, you have a rotated pelvis, the world isn’t straight to you, its anarchy. You need a psychiatrist, writers are all in asylums, they're all slaves to themselves and their desires, writing is the only legal form of schizophrenia, somewhere we've convinced the world that its creativity, when we’re just crazier than the craziest except maybe we're more scared, we’re more concerned with what society would think— the others are gutless, truly insane. We’re borderline, we live in a chamber of horrors, where sin sells, and spontaneity releases us from the internal prison that we have surrendered too.
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