jin1

There is an idea of a Robert Edwardsen, 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 my cold flesh gripping yours, and maybe you can sense that our lifestyles are probably comparable...I simply am not there.

I have all the characteristics of a human being; flesh, blood, skin, hair, but not a single identifiable emotion, except for greed and disgust. something horrible is happening inside me, and I don't know why. My nightly bloodlust has overflowed into my days. I feel lethal, on the verge of frenzy. I think my mask of sanity is about to slip.

There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontollable and the insane, the vicious, and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it I have now surpassed. 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 upon others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this, there is no catharsis, my punishment continues to elude me, and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself; No new knowledge can be extracted from my telling.
This confession has meant nothing.