Everybody appears so sure of their purpose in promoting some sort of personality they've mustered with assurance that they're supposed to, shunning it with the subtle breeze changes; a stark reminder that evolution is null. I watched myself fade like feathers falling from a cheap pillow in a low thread count case. It is not so much a change but rather an alleviation of what personality I perhaps may have felt so sure I had, though it feels to have been replaced not by shifts in subtlety of presentation or perception of my self but by a slow degradation leading to nothing particular at all, I find a simplification of base, knotted tangles, unable to project, of bamboo, straw, spa, colors drained to the beige, the black, the white. A wasteland, cluttered so sparsely with what I never believed to be feigned in a lie, though I truly no longer sense any semblance of a memory containing what I once perhaps never was to begin with, or to have aimed with cautionary meaningfulness toward and then having lost sight of before ever finding the words to pit it against all the odds to the point of making some mark anywhere outside of my very own gluten intolerant gut, it resides like a bezoar blocking my ability to communicate or to acknowledge it fully without means to poison myself with radiation if only to catch a mere glimpse of the monstrous mass buried deep within me for which no purpose could serve other than to recognize that I, as expected, as imagined, am no longer that, and what I worked so forcibly in establishing only within myself matters slim to none at present just as, regardless of previous efforts to attain and maintain, so little did it prior. I look to find not my own reflection but those of the vampires all around me. In serving their own purpose, they eliminated mine.