Once it arrived, I could no longer decipher between right and wrong. It was a delightful amnesia, fragmented completeness accompanied by anxious music. My intentions were deceptively honest, overly reckless. My soul hissed like a half-opened soda as I found myself falling in with thieves, becoming persona non-grata. I smelled like sex and whiskey, waited for the spell to break while embracing tension, the perpetual pull between desire and necessity. I sought disarray, a sermon from my soliloquy of personal mayhem, a door within me opening to a catwalk, towards impending disaster. Apathetic, anticlimactic, and antagonistic. But instead, I preached peace to the bedeviled. Whispered litanies of forged hopes. Instead, I slipped outside of reality and through locked doors, quietly.