Some say I was born in 1938, while others say I was not born at all, but rather just appeared from the mist on the heath one night, a child of no living man but of the world at large.  Some say I get my power from the special cells in my skin that charge in the bathing light of the sun; some say it comes from my having been constructed for a world of more gravity – I know better though.

All I ever do is go through motions, reciting hollow phrases I was taught by hollow men to advance their hollow ideologies at the expense of substance.  I often grow weary of such meaningful existence, for my meaning is beyond that of my peers by factors of hundreds.

Solitude is sometimes my only sanity.

I get looked down upon often by my colleagues, who say I have unfair advantages or that I am too stupid to be completely effective, or that I am too monochromatic in my distinctions.  I don’t think they realize that’s how I want it to be–

All I ever want anymore is to fail.  B.W. is deathly afraid of failure, but I invite it to bless me with its gratifying release and free me from this residence in blue.  I asked for this as much as anyone else asks to be born into their life, but I’m not so puerile that I refuse my station.  Someone has to bear the sky on his shoulders or else it will come crashing down; just because I don’t want it, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t do it.  Just let me do it my way.

Sometimes I dream in color.  All I see are dead finches falling from infinity and breaking through the fragile demeanor of this place.  I don’t even try to stop it.  I just pick up my scotch and let my troubles slip away into oblivion’s blue, pulling down shades to cover my eyes so I can    be    just    like    you