I feel numb, generic; no longer distinguishable, just another statistic, another robotic clone ready to be fucked. Concede to conformity, normality; I sleep at night. Accept imperfections; no longer a poorly made sculpture, just sinew and flesh. I long for pain, for drama instead of the repetitive mundane nothingness; attempt suicide out of boredom, an unambiguous attempt to create an angst persona.
  I idolize those who embrace their darkest fate, suffocated by unintelligible despair, using hate as an escape,  torment to create the shattered lines in suffering works. I want chaos, defiance; I want my own personal apocalypse. A soul eating sprite from hell planted in my womb; I want to create mistakes instead of erasing them. Ominous writing expressing dark mind and emotion; portentous, self-absorbed words.