I am mad. I am mad in both senses of the word: crazy, and angry. I was not mad last week, and I may not be mad next month. Now, here, I am mad. I don’t intend to become anything other than mad. I am angry enough to destroy myself but too disoriented to follow through. I hate myself for wanting to die over this, and I am crazy to believe that this is the only thing in my life that matters. This is a bomb in my chest waiting to explode; a truth squashed under the wheel of time that only the twists of madness could unfold. This is obsession. This is failure. This is inspiration. This is love.