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Being A Solitary Man With A Hungry Heart, I Was Never Sober​.​.​. And All I Did Was Gamble My Life Away; You Ask Me To Give You My Soul, But How Can You Love Me, If I Need You Back​?​! The Only Thing That's True Is That You're Not Mine And Will Never Be​.​.​.

from Father Nightingale, Drinking Whiskey In The Rain, Like The Water Tower Preacher Who Took A Walk Out Across The Ocean; He Needs A Thousand More Oceans To Swallow Before He Finds His Egalitarian God by Wings Of An Angel

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Wings Of An Angel Israel

My own identity feels like a construct, a collection of roles and personas worn like so many masks. Who am I, really?

Perhaps in the end, we are all just characters in someone else's novel, puppets dancing on strings we cannot see.
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