He is a weak man, crippled by anger. He lives in fear, ashamed of his actions, in peril, trembling at the sight of his own visage, pissing his pants when faced with reality. He has no body, and thus, can never die. He slits his wrists and hangs himself, time and time again; he swallows the pills, chugs the bottle, over and over; alas! It is no use. And he releases his frustration upon me, inflicting any pain possible, flailing with a set of knives as his fingertips. His guilt, his conscience, locked away in a tiny silver box, with the key floating somewhere in my stomach acid.
And maybe this answers the question so oft asked of me: