Well, 4 out of 5 doctors agree that I am actually insane

Call me sentimental. Call me what I am: masochistic. Always wanting. Never satisfied. No, I'm not going to break into a Rolling Stones song. I have some tact. Although it's true, I don't have much. But it's a matter of choice, really. It isn't that I don't possess tact, I just don't exercise it often. Maybe I'm too crass at times. Fuck it, we can't all be fucking angels. I was never cut out for that. I'm far too misanthropic to place any kind of emphasis on being nice to others. It'd be like a fucking atheist praying.

Call me touched, but I can see you now; I can see all of us. It's warm, but not suffocatingly so. I breathe easily in this, my imagined place. And I know that no matter the path, that I'll always come back to talk to you, my Alexander of silent repose. My wise-man. Forever young. Isn't that everyone's dream? But is it yours? It it the dream of a dream?

You can stay with me for years and gain all the knowledge of experience through me, but retain that undeveloped, angelic face. A face of wonder and hope. The face only a child can possess. But you'll know better. You'll fool them all- like mother, like son. Having been force-fed a bitter pill before you can even swallow. But believe me when I say that it's medicine, the cure for an ugly disease, which your mother wanted to save you the agony of being afflicted with. Trust me, it is an action, a choice begotten of love.