Consumed by self, thoughts of nothing but me, wondering about amazing self, caring for me, if it’s not about me I tune out, drift through till it’s all about me again. It’s my reality. Completely. I’m not isolated by others but solely by me. Bored by their puny insignificance. It’s me who scribbles this fantastic gift. My sense. Mine. Me. No cracks allowed. Take a tissue and this bag where you can vomit your existence in. I meant my existence.
Don’t forget, it’s about me. Always. My screams. My suffering. No one else comes even close. Tortured genius artist. With just the right touch of anger and self loathing. All on the surface of course. Inside I’m brilliant. How could I not be? Just look at my weeping soul! Looks gorgeous when suffering. Me. Beautiful in my epic sadness. Yes! But in an ugly way. That gives more credibility. Tortured genius that suffers from not getting the recognition that is so well deserved. I mean – damn, how blind and ignorant is society to not see my mighty supremacy.
Actually, fuck recognition. Fuck the system. Without it my cred is even higher! Too advanced for today’s humanity. To understand my brilliance is quite impossible. I am a perfect being. I am demigod of art! Taking a stroll among pesky mortals. But I do it in a humble way. Acting as a nice guy helps fuel my credibility. Watch it soar into stratosphere of existence.
Timeless. I. Am. A gift to the Universe.