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In The Sky Of Life, I Get So Cold, I Get So Lost, I've Been Through It All And I Know That It Won't Be Vainly, Because I'm Counting On You To Bring Light Into My Life

from In This Hedonistic Society, Where Everything Precious And Shallow Alike Is Readily​-​Won​-​And​-​Readily​-​Lost, The Natural Habitat For Saints Is The Graveyard 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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