It is a great honour to be an anomaly. To be raised by unprepared parents in concrete farms. To slide through life, cloaked in scales, with your back against the stars. YOur forked tongue, dripping, with sickly sweet words, intoxicating the planet with delirium. To pour your illusion into the world,
and for it to marvel at it and adore it, discarding all other real things.
Psychopathy begins in the egg, and patiently creeps within the cells, growing, with you, throughout time.
It is an orchestra in your mind, that lulls others to sleep. Or wakes them gently to the cruelty of this life.
We are the Venus fly traps of intelligent life forms. Within us lies the fascination of death, and our desperate inability to devour ourselves.
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