And so he fell into a depression, where he only saw his hands and the words he wrote. His thoughts poured out with no effort, and his friends were appalled at the lack of compassion he showed for himself and others. A fool on a folly, they said. A frantic mind was he, when he tried to search for a face to call his own. Those deep eyes of his, that he looked at every night, finally seemed shallow. So he finally dreamed, a dream of lustful uncertainty. He flowed in and out of an endless river of nothing but regrets and demands at some sort of ratification. And he awoke to find himself in a body he was just not quite used to.

The streams of people flowed like a current of electricity, powered by the hearts of some sort of future. He stayed afloat, using a skilled force of paranoia and non-compassion. They stared, of course, at a fool blocking out his already known fate. And he winked slyly at the mention of idiocy. The rush of outside, and he saw more people than he remembered being there. Thousands of faces that he didn't recognize, yet he could not stop staring at them all. Thank the lord, he thought, That they did not notice. He tried to look passed the faces, all of them seemingly looking passed him, and he did not see an ending to his journey. For the first time, perhaps the only time, he felt alone.

He rushed home, as if his very soul was on fire. Looking around, he saw nothing familiar. An empty room with a single bed, white sheets, and a wooden dresser filled with nothing but socks and pictures from the past. He pulled the drawers from the dresser out with a force that was unheard of by him. It fell on the floor with a loud thud, and he yelled. Yelled at himself for having such memories. Beating his fist against the wood, he brought only blood and blessings. Yet the pain filled him with a new sense of closure, a closing force that he only blocked out with the rest of his life. And he laughed at whatever forces were acting on him today.

A dead rose and pool of water awaited him when he came back into the room. It had been on the dresser and in his crass actions he knocked it over. He laughed at this as well, and he picked it up and placed the burnt red flower into the vase once more. The petals pilled off the rose, and he decided that perhaps all beauty must fade, even in the hearts of men. For the first time, life struck a new meaning with him. All beauty must fade, even his own. And he tried to cry at this thought, but thought it too crude, so he left the stem inside the container and put fresh tap water inside of it. He viewed it as a sort of medal at his own faded life.

So he tried to analyze his paranoia, with no success. Then he tried to decide if he could redeem himself, although that proved fruitless as well. At last, in a sudden burst of grievance, he decided his actions were carved in marble, and he was unable to cover them up. He would accept himself as a man of sin, dive forth, and whatever remained glued to his bones afterward would be considered himself.

And he smiled, at last, coming to terms of the beast of burden he carried within his heart. The serious and the cocky; the gay and the free. And he laughed once more, not of spite, but he laughed out of freedom. For a man is as free as he makes himself.

And he will die by his own laws.