One side of me writes. The other only observes, taking note of everything the first makes real.

These words are not the product of a single mind.

I always begin and end with a rough sketch, drawn straight from the core—a dangerous place to linger. One side watches while the other acts.

That is me.

This is how we have agreed to exist. Forever blindsided by my own words, my own actions, always trying to outmaneuver myself.

The left side seethes with anger, frustration, raw animal instinct. The right remains still—civilized, composed, calculating. The right is right, in every literal, abstract, and conceivable sense.

But the right side is a monster.

While the left side is alive.