divine poetic justice, or so you say. but i beg to differ - cos He will not wreck vengeance, or wish to heap harm upon His children, and if i cannot stand upon that one true thing that i know is true in this world of falsity, then i might as well not live.

i have slain Memory, for my rebirth into a new creation necessitates that i must do so in order to fly. am i imposing my will upon your disbelief that Memory must be killed in order to father the offspring of a new life, or a new heart?

the phantoms of your past sit in that corner where you are - and i act as the gatekeeper, the door thru which you depend on to shutslambang, to shore vehemently against those unsubstantial beings borne of by Memory . but real they are to me, and substantial indeed, for they take a form in reality which blinds you to the image of me. for what am i but a mirror through which you peek into, reflecting the past in Safe Mode?

i am your Sanity, the Non-Sexual Muse, the Superego controlling the overflow of your tormented soul, or your even-more-grazed heart. i am the sensible girl, the no-go-partyhavefunfunfun, the one to soothe-heal-mend, the Heart-Weaver - or so you claim.

in other words, an Object, with a specific function.

my heart inwardly grieves, for the subject at hand accommodates not reality as we know it to be, but those very phantoms, those ideas, those thoughts, those memories which compete with my presence.

and they will win, for i am but your wallpaper.

no flower-power for the wallflower.