Thrumming with an eerie, vibrant electricity, life itself is perverse, unnecessary, excessive, born from needs themselves born from depths unfathomed, from want, from desire, without division or judgement rendered. To be full of these needs inexpressible, damned to endure them alone, is to live wracked with horrors unspoken, in self-hurt or a prideful withdrawal from the ways of the living, viewing them as if from afar, going about their days and their nights, their sleep and their wakefulness, never knowing how it could be thus, out of determined order, yet existing just the same, betwixt life under the reign of the sun and the coolness and permanency of the grave, belonging to neither, longing for both. To eat, to drink,…