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With Nothing Left But The Past That I Would Not Want To Remember, All I Can Afford Is A Drink Of Seeing Myself Like This; I Know I'm Tough Enough For You To Phone, But All I Can Find Is A Whale And Its Full Of Noise, Just Like You And The Way Your Hands Are Tight Around My Slender Body

from You Can't Leave Because There Ain't Enough Stars, There Ain't Enough Blue, There Ain't Enough Of Us Two! Two Eyes And Two Eyes Alone Can Love Unconditionally In The Autistic Meta​-​Reality Of The Eternal (Or Rather Infernal) Skies 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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