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Your Dirty Little Secret Slipped Right Through My Cracked Lips Because I'm Tired Of Running Bets On A One Night Stand With Destiny's Child; I've Told You A Thousand Times Not To Count The Cents On Your Window Sill, Cuz What Motivation Would Night Fairies Have To Visit Your Room At Night Otherwise?

from I Was Born In The Eighties, Remember? You Might Be Older Now, As We Hang On Through The Night Like Locusts, Our Bodies Meet, And So I Can't Wrestle Heavy Drinks From The Pain, But I'd Die If I Ever Think About The Future, You Know I Could Be Happy Back In The Day, But Only If You Were My Friend 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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