lisaisms

Dying is an art.
Like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I have a call.

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One day I'll have my death of him.

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You think I'll weep.
No, I shall not weep:
I'll have full cause of weeping:
but this heart shall break
into a hundred thousand flaws,
or ere I'll weep. O fool, I shall go mad!

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I'll so offend to make offense a skill,
redeeming time
when men think least I will.

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"But I think you've frightened her, and that's why she likes you."

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"Destroy! Destroy! Destroy!",
hums the underconsciousness.
"Love and produce! Love and produce!"
cackles the upperconsciousness.
And the world hears only
the 'love and produce' cackle.
Refuses to hear the hum
of destruction underneath...
until such time as it
will have to hear.

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"Sometimes I feel like I'm not... solid. I'm hollow. There's... nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. It's as if I never-- I never thought of anything. I never wrote... anything, I never felt anything. All I want is blackness-- blackness and silence."

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"We're not even two people. Even before we met, we were just... these two halves... walking around with big... gaping holes in us shaped like the other person. And then we found each other and we were finally a whole. But then it's as if we couldn't stand being happy, so we ripped-- we ripped ourselves in half again."

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The box is locked.
It is dangerous.
There are no windows,
so I can't see what is in there.
There is only a little grid.
No exit.