item #0063

People, I feature self-destruct. You see only shards, but, as always, I remain generally aware, faultlessly particularizing; painfully, The Severalist. I dislike my body. It dislikes me. So it goes. But the real issues are of the mind. For instance, my preferred mentation is, to me, too short, too thin and short, for the processes of either self-criticism or real work. Nothing seems thorough enough, nothing is fast enough, nothing is accurate enough. I remain unalterably displeased. My personality - The Severalist - is as displeaser: Severalist the Displeaser. In see flaws even in this unitary perfection, however. I am a youngman, barely in my twenties. But already I ritualise wild blemishes as badges of beauty, sensual and righteous. Detriment is merchandise. To be clear, though, this is a version of masochism not a sign of neglect. I am like all the saints in that regard. People, believe me when I say I love you. But even hate cannot condemn the defects I am attempting to list. Only some positive sacrifice will give us year zero. What's mine is yours.