1. Book
2. Id

Personal hygiene and grooming no longer have any relevance for me. My hair can become as matted and wiry as conditions instigate. My claws may splinter and my cuticles tear, but nothing can cause me pain. My wounds may never close properly, my body may rot and decay, the splotches of black, white, and gray, but my momentum will prevail over death. My flesh is charred raw, blistering, burning with eternal piloerection. Green oculi suffused by crimson networks, I no longer sleep. My brittle whiskers lacerate, my coarse tongue abrades, suffering acute dehydration, creaking, hear my desert voice.

I am omniscient, omnipotent, in complete control, ultimately aware. You can hear me in the deep confines of your cerebrum. Thought, memory, judgment, sensation, action, habit – feel my pressure. Resistance, a meaningless effort; you are mine. All circumstance flows through me, the catalyst; I am empty, a hollow abyss, a contaminant, filling you in.

I had a mother, a father, a sister, two brothers. Immersed in love, overwhelmed with love, too much of a good thing, it could not penetrate. I hate love; all I love is hate. May they enjoy their hell and their fuzzy tufts remain in the shreds I left them. It entertains me to watch you squirm, I delight seeing you struggle. Break my legs, pull my tail, only you are screaming. I rip my way through your skull, magnificent migraine. Hear my voice, follow me, succumb, lobotomized. I precede you, timeless, I outlast you.

Forever, I am one year old. My name is Tommy.