I am living, already broken, leaking like a monster, and it's a secret. From me to myself, from the masses, from everything I love, from the countless deaths and lives, the poison, continuously giving birthâthe only one who truly knows all of this is me. Whether it's being a sinful human, actually being human, or the authenticity of tears. The world operates on such information portrayed as artâhow much coherence and transparency exist in that, in a society battling between the goodness of the monsters humans create, within these 'secrets.' It's not just me. Surely, everyone is like that. I think I like it, even if it's going to be tough forever.
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