There is no real me

Only an entity

Something illusionary

And though i can hide my cold gaze

And you can shake my hand

And feel flesh griping yours

And maybe you can even sense

That our lifestyles are probably conformable

I simply..am not..there

what does one know of madness? a scale (a mirror and those indifferent clocks) of varying degree is there a tipping point somewhere maybe in between maybe off the scale but if there isn't a point then we are all tumbling into recesses of darkness

though maybe madness is a technicoloured light down the rabbit hole which begets the question if there are different rabbit holes and if they lead to the same place choose you which hole to tumble down would you want to get out again could you get out again does this boil down madness to a matter of choice?

the madder the hatter the madder the matter.

would you be able to tell if i were insane if i smiled at you and did the same things as you and was in fact just like you

but not quite you sometimes my hands they look so strange these protrusions

fingers i do not get why a ramble jimjamble of letters have meaning why must things be functional an irrationality is not an invalidity i could break these fingers off and be left with a lump of flesh if i wanted to but it would look strange not as strange as before and would i be in that finger i broke off for if who is but the form following the function of a what then what i am is

flesh in a mask. the point is. Sometimes.

Sometimes.