and in the night it all comes back to haunt you, a pressure from within, just below the ribs, at the cusp of the sternum. you wonder how dark you really are, how black your soul. shouldn’t you embrace all fear then, relish in all your insecurities, find such acute pleasure in the banalities of your day-to-day? (hadn’t you even written, ‘evil is banal’?)
instead thoughts sweet and insipid. ebb and flow of murk and whimsy. something clingy and cloyingly tempting, pushing forward, pushing through. you are deathly afraid because you wonder, when will i stop thinking this way, when will the evil pass? as if it was a virus, a stomach flu, instead of the cancer that it is. this fountain of malaise with you, this well-spring.
to keep them from it, to protect them, when you really want to pass it on. to spread the wealth of the dark, to teach how to be evil because the fucking world really is this way, without code, without order, without color. all skin and wounds, all jagged mouths and smeared lips.
if we were not the clowns, then all this would be some hell of a circus.