It is hard for me to make sense on any given level.
My self is fabricated, an aberration.
My personality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent.
There is an idea of a ‘me’, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel my flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there.