From my notes: Healing feels like grieving. I should stop performing autopsies on past dialogues, especially maladaptive ones. My fears of banality and the fragility of my ego will dissipate once I reject societal ideals. I will bash you with my bloodied compositions until you realize just how much I think about you. Are we innately greedy and advantageous creatures? Do we enjoy stripping people of the flesh that shields their vessels? The cruelest confections contain the darkest transgressions, glittered with spurious, insincere intentions. They're embellished with shallow promises and empty commitments, dollops of frosting coated gumdrops. I am a menagerie, a mosaic, a rotting necropolis of all the things that I cannot seem to forget. Flared ribs, tattered jugular, beaten clavicles, cauterized lips, necrotic pelt, disfigured limbs, ashes in an hour glass; tell me I'm pretty and don't flinch. Do not tell someone that their life is tragically beautiful or beautifully tragic, it's revolting. My body braced itself for decomposition, but it felt the same as it always did. Eye contact never fails to evoke intense rapture. The world is my oyster, he told me. How big is the oyster? I never asked. I am not a casual observer, a passive persecutor, an acquiescent lover. I obsess over situations until you lead me to the coin pond and commit a series of psychological onslaughts. Am I naive or completely neurotic? Am I still considered collateral damage if I consented to my own demise? My stammer, stutter, aching tremors don't make you uncomfortable. In fact, they intrigue you. Superiors portend us to protect ourselves from infectious designs, but viruses also want to live. Why do exploit innocents creatures for profit? Good night, Mei.