What is wrong then? Taking pleasure in watching someone's agony and death on screen? We are repressed. Pent up. Explosive. Yet we do our best to detonate that outburst, unknowingly, everyday, in any and every possible outlet that we can find. Taking pleasure in distractions to ease the urges of destruction. We are just a knife away from deadly mistakes.

At the point of vulnerability, we scream and shout, kicking, internally, for sympathy, attention, an applaud, to be understood. Appreciated. Of our weakness bear forth in front of another human being. It is like a naked dance of weakness.

I should be paid to write poetry perhaps. Something that I can immerse myself in. Like a beautiful tragic role play, for once, in which I am not the main character; I enter a trance. I am you for that instant. As easy as slipping on a pair of shoes or sliding my hands into your coat, to feel and taste your warmth, and the raw intense emotions you were overwhelmed in yet unable to seal into words. You feel like the tragic hero in your story. And I... can simply close my eyes and let my fingers take over to string your story into beautiful words.

I posses you in that short... dulcet...trance. You are mine. Owned in that instant. It felt like a sweet intoxicated intercourse, without the actual physical body itself. What a magnificent art, while being worlds apart. So you wait in anticipation for my beautiful master piece to be presented to you, a transaction in which we walk away from, feeling so deeply satisfied.

Eccentric?

Yes I am, unashamedly enjoying every moment of it. It was not you that I was interested in. It is the art and power I get from your well of misery. I take pleasure in that, that's all.

Evidence?

In my archives.