Notes from a Mad Hand

You think you're so much better than me.

Bigger, better, beside me.

But look to your right and you'll notice you're left.

Alone.

 

A god is a power, with no real purpose.

A god has no goal, other than being worshipped.

 

What are we? A soul in a canister of meat. Or a body with a sympathic parasite.

Do we really think, or does the brain think for us?

 

All you're faces. On such high places.

Planning, placing. Never finding a solution. Just a new level of power.

 

I am alone. Because I am who I am.

No one else can be me.

No one else wants to be alone.

 

I enjoy seeing you uncomfortable. Your pesky little world, being burst like a bubble.

While mine remain. While my bubble grows, to cover the real with a dream.