Caligula and I are pen pals. Together we author madness and romance, tragedy and brutality and beauty. His name is liquid and golden and I am envious of the bitter sweet nature of his insanity. Would you call me Little Boots too?
His name is the silver reflection of a narcissus and I am Echo. Or the echo. Because phantoms don't have names; they are not denoted by the capitalization of a letter. My voice is all that is left. An idea. A repetition of "Alas...alas..."
Would that a pomegranate would preserve my sanity, keep me in death's embrace and away from life's all consuming flame.
"Have me", I call...
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