People.
You reckless and predictable peoples.
The mass; a swarm of drunken bees.
I want to join you and I want to love you,
but you all make it so impossible.

This fragile ticking time bomb, lodged in my cranium, is not on my side. Albeit, we share the same body and existence but its sole purpose is to destroy me. I'd elaborate in all styles intellectual, but it has crawled back into its deep, dank hole where it will whomp and wallow.

I've met another fictional lover. We have a date, soon; you'd adore him, he's nothing like me.
His name is R. F.