Those whom frown upon internal communication simply are not entertained by it themselves. Now. You, over there. The one that left me indirectly but direct enough to scar. Yes. If you have any place in reality you have no place with me. Any connection, feel to, or breath in this actual world, and you are but a dust. Not even a piece, just a dust. But, how dare you think to compare yourself to anything of importance. Question  yourself, as long as wished. Upon me you mustn't. For the wind can sometimes blow even the nonexistent being. Beware; sometimes, I make love to my own soul. And it's beautiful. I can watch my mind lop around inside of my being. And with it my voice rescinds any notion it has for itself! Only to a fault, and versing in the oscillations of my mind. Close your mind and write you fool. You can't, see, only he can. Only he will, ever will. To forever he will. Stretching a camp to and from the frolics I seep skin deep. An eternity, and I will stand by what I mull over in my consciousness. A faint notion, perhaps, but a grave feel to this life I must have, and I will have. Goodness to the world, and it cries back. Heated! Like an autumn refugee, bitter, as the lifeless leaf, itself fettering. Gaunt are you, with a liege of blubber; acquisition feting! Whom, now to have the best of these, only a peculiar type such as thee. I needed you, such as you needed your impending fate. Neither of which will ever come, but are to die swiftly with the passing of a second. Literally. Okay. Maybe a minute. I'll give you that. I shouldn't have wasted more than a second however. But for what you cause me I take so much more.