When all what exists becomes a constant swing from one extreme to another, what remains real? Nothing that I know, nothing that I don’t know, nothing that exists except that void. Is it familiarity that I miss? Is it certainty? But when was I ever familiar with anything? I’ve always been the eternal lonewolf. Estranged by all, blending with masks one after another and never sharing a real face. What familiarity did I ever have to lose? What certainty? I could prove or disprove all what exists in my head, at will. Or could I? Maybe it’s all in my head. What scares me is how I tried before to make myself feel alive. I’m more alive if more things around me are dead. It’s like a slow-burning fuse, getting closer and closer to dynamite. I still know my cure. I still know my cure. I still know..