if you want me, you could take me away.
But what I do I do because I like to do. Where's the crime in that? It's like a symphony, and I am the conductor. It's my own little concert, and each note I play, I play for the sheer bliss of it. Only later does the silence come, heavy and cold, and you're left wondering what the music ever meant. — Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange ———————— The flick of the thumb like striking a match. Click. Like a key in an old rusty lock; like a door creaking open — ushering in memories long buried. Each flick; each click — a reminder of things better left untouched. Each flick, each click — like chasing the spark that may soon turn into a wildfire. The flame comes to life consuming everything in its path. Wildfire. The flame spreads, the fog thickens. —— His mind wanders into the haze, seeking that escape that he always longed for. Industrial sounds in the background as he danced with shadows, chasing the fleeting thrill of getting lost in illusions. Oh boy. Oh those delusion...
