This gratitude for life is coated with a bitter glaze—what feels like the only combination of emotions suitable for the inexplicable nature of consciousness. Strange, but a special form of peace accompanies these thoughts. A compromise between self and acceptance. For acceptance alone has always left an unsatisfying texture on my tongue; the sour taste of pretence, lingering—Stockholm syndrome. To be locked inside a home built on the foundation of madness, seduced into a slow dance in the loving embrace of despair. My God! And as I watch these bones turn to dust, it becomes clear that this anger cannot be directed towards man; they too are mere victims, hoaxed into the pursuit of greatness although we have abandoned good as a prerequisite. Nor can it be directed towards self, for my palms never touched the ingredients of Genesis. My God, these quarrels are with the nature of existence itself—aimless. Alas, in this notepad I shall shelter my screams. And with my neighbours, I'll nurture my love.