Spineless is Fate, and I as fragile class kneel between the knees of God to place them together for his own amusement, to gain his love. How would you feel if you were your father's whore? If you sat praying for him to look at you like he looks at Mommy. Oh, life would change. Life wouldn't be life anymore, it would be a pool-- No, a puddle. A pool, that mass is too great for the lack of dignity in a hooker's knee-high boots. So, here we come to this puddle, this small, trivial drop of water, surrounded by a world of importance and beauty. And bigger puddles. One looks at the night into depth and structure while another sees colours and another, perhaps, will see nothing but night. See what is night really? Is it colour? Is it depth? And if we can't figure what night is, how are we to figure out what we are. Or more important, what we aren't. For example, I'm not a nice little girl. I'm not an angel. I'm a vomited up mistake intended to get attention, but instead provided a mess, another responsibility happier lived without. It's important to know who and what you are and that is why I tell myself my mother never let me forget it. That is why I believe she was in the right. She never commented on my looks and it's what's on the inside that counts, or so we're taught. So I was taught. And what was inside me were organs and fluids-- Matter. I was a thing, a was this object that simply existed. Why, how, it didn't matter because no matter what the answer, I would still be here. Existing. And cruel as it may seem for her to push such views on me, to give me this cynical perception of life and love and just everything, I couldn't be more thankful. I couldn't look at my mother with anymore gratitude. I may sit on the street, grinning, laughing at things that no one finds funny or pretending what you want me to pretend. I may be this scum, this hidden secret, this violation of everything this objects have created, but I go to sleep light-hearted. I go to sleep without burden, without worry. I know that these people, they are exactly like me. They exist. Everything, absolutely everything is only here to exist and I am no different, no better, no worse than someone who exists for another reason by another method. Either way, we're still both here. My vanishing act, they say, is distasteful and old. They call me cliché and boring. They say I talk too little and write too much for someone without a mind of their own. Who are they to preach about a mind of their own? A mind, why would you want your own mind? Having a personality, individuality, the ability to process and think and make decisions and come to conclusions are exactly what breaks us apart from each other. It's what makes everything shred of existence completely and utterly alone. No matter how you voice, show it, spell it. No matter how you express, it's never quite what it is to you and in you and as you. And in that respect we are alone. And dependence becomes this liberator, this salvation from loneliness, from the reality because reality is not a happy thing. This addiction, this dependence binds us to something and suddenly, without this thing, without this substance or object or this piece of matter, we could not exist. And if not for those like us and us ourselves, this thing could not exist. Everyday we destroy the world and everyday we need it more. An abusive relationship seems the most honest if looking at life through this depressing vision. The clarity of being trapped, the freedom of having no way out is beautiful no matter what the outcome. You are free of worry. You are free of challenge, of threat, of anything that you may have to face, because now you only have to face it. Whatever it is. It's going to be there. That simplicity, that knowledge is a gift. And when we lay our heads down at night, we cry inside. The dark shrouds our bodies, our shells and the existence inside can finally reveal how tortured it is. No matter who are you, no matter how happy you are. You still exist.