Proud, if not perfect.

I have acknowledgement from him

I ahve a finished work I absolutely love. It's not perfect visually, but I'm so proud of the content. It feels right to fight prejudice so openly, beautifully and convinclingly...

Perfect and perverted... I love you, I love it. It's done.

A witch of darkest hour
                                ... I am.

Laughs from the audience that are my actors. Bravo! Bis! Bis!

I feel drained. All of me is sucked into an unending scandal that will reignite in a couple of minutes as well as mashed on by the feet of a thousand little men [or mice].

Even T doesn't help anymore. Romanticism is a cure-ful homewrok, at least.

I feel like a zombie that want to go to heaven.

How would you make the scariest, most gruesome and disturbingly disgusting face (no funny stuff, no deformations)?
You're on the bus, you wanna scare the kids... how?

Imagine a pain that sears through your body. All your intestines have been cut up, raped and are currently inflamed and swollen. The pain is mind-numbing and makes you want to throw up every minute.

The face is natural then.

But if something distracts you from that, a song for example, a beautiful song for a beautiful person... you can't be horrendous anymore. You smile. I smiled. And I forgot allt he pain. It was still there, but it didn't concern me. Guided meditation, palace with seven doors, caves, animals and stuff like that. Ireland. Not really, just remember me when you're the one who's silver screen. Guided infatuation. Love is a cure. The cure is love. The Cure is love.

INsane, Xsane, what's the difference?