It feels comforting, apathetic until a situation reaches a point of extreme despair. Merciless, the story goes and it feels great to never really be here, I am morally culpable, and you only have the slightest idea. Paranoid about the evolution of my feelings, or lack there of, could take. I’m a walking contradiction. So I lick the nipples of perfection, turn around and bury my face in the belly of the beast or wherever I think it belongs the most