Mood:  rushed

What are we not but children of the night? We are products of our desire, we are the pulse of hedonism, we are the ultimate feelers thinkers and lovers. We are creations of desire, and as such we should chase it, chase chase chase until we decease from our everlasting pursuit of pleasure.

I cannot breathe, I cannot see past myself and this is very unfortunate for I would prefer to be but a reflection; yet undisputably I am I, and he is he.

Am I making sense? Define sense. Can you will thought fluidly and break the bounderies of yourself? Transcend. 

Impossible is our goal but it's the pursuit which we must continue.