Where The Yellow-Brick Road Crumbles...

Life is but a dream. That is what it seems to be at the present. A mundane, meandering, slow-boating dream filled to the brim with subtle chaos.

'lo the pressing of those on the other side of the glass as they smear their faces upon the dome of the life I would like to call my own. Watch as they attempt to leave an impression of their hideous grimace upon the frames of my mind. They leave nothing but more; more shit on my wall to face.

It seems a custom I hold to myself that everything I attempt will end in failure. The confidence I portray is but the presence of the Masque or care (which in the case of the latter would be the lack thereof).

Less than a moon has past since I was told that I had spent close to two years working on something which might be deemed insufficient or irrelavent. Would I face the axe for the shame which currently dwells within me? The bile of bitterness returns directed otherwise at not only those which shot me to pieces but to the shards over the ground which made up myself.

Far from eager to learn of the fruit my labour has borne, far from ready to approach strangers and request that I be compensated for my 8.30-6.00 hours and far from ready to deal with everything else being smeared on my face.

Escapist, guide my path. Where shall I hide next?