My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone; in fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others.
There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable… I simply am not there.
Look at that subtle off-white coloring; the tasteful thickness of it… Oh my God, it even has a watermark.