"I can't sleep. I don't think it's insomnia-induced sleeplessness, I just can't sleep because―and you'll make fun of me―but, whenever I shut my eyes I hear this sizzling noise. I can hear the crackling oil; a series of mini-explosions sending invisible, but highly audible, shrapnel flying against the flesh and bones of my head.

I can't sleep.

Maybe that's why I've been...

Look, I don't really remember when I was last a little kid. I mean, I have very vague memories of someone singing me Humpty Dumpty and how he fell off this wall and they couldn't fix him and that's it!

That's all I remember.

And now I feel like I'm just a fallen Humpty Dumpty. But instead of falling off a wall, I just collapsed in my place and I can't get up. I have these terribly flaccid feet that refuse to carry me any longer.

Now, I need to know: Can you fix me? 

You have to! Understand this: I can do nothing, I can be nothing, I can feel nothing. I constantly feel emotionally, mentally, and physically crippled. It's like my body is grounded but everything else that exists within it is floating outside of it. And it's stuck in some fabric and it just... It's like I'm crawling my way to a fast approaching, untimely demise.

We'll meet halfway.

I keep staring at everything I'm supposed to be, but everything is up there and I'm lying here on the ground on my pathetic, defunct feet.

Remember when I used to paint? Now it feels like someone spilled a pitcher of water on all my paintings and yeah, maybe they're not completely ruined and all I have to do is just wait for all the water to dry out. But they'll lose their texture, they'll still get ruined by rough creases. They'll be the same beautiful paintings, alright! But just maybe... slightly... more... imperfect, I guess.


I'm hopelessly lost right now because I don't know what's what...

Does being less imperfect make you almost perfect or does being less perfect make you imperfect or just perfect, but less...?

Hey! Are you listening to me... ?

God, I feel t-"