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There's A Handsome Man In The Timber Yard, Across The River In A Thousand Cities, And You Can't Hear Him Smile; I Run Across The Woods, I Throw Myself On The Wood And I Go, And I Know Some Of Us Will Eventually Vow; I Guess That If We Want Some Pleasure, We're Ought To Swear To Bow As Low As Cows Go

from We'll Be Together In The Dead Of The Night, In The Belly Of The Beast We Stay; I Don't Believe In Mercy, I Don't Believe In Heaven, I Don't Believe In Miracles, I Don't Believe In Wholenows; Stop Being Selfish And Fire My Shotgun To The Other Side Of Your Metaphysical Womb Already! 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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