Passive to the sporadic cleansing of my mental palette I find any concept of a healthy mind a fallacy amongst the truer tones of tragedy forsaking any pretense of identity in the name of artistry and fairly pessimistic tendencies. It seems I transform every moment a sober metamorphosis only holding on to sanity by vengeful vanity single-handedly demonstrating only that my shattered ego is all the more banter worthy. Sturdy but further searching for means of expressing esteemed vitality and masculinity to the point of it all being quite unnecessary. Much like this poem i wrote at one in the morning while studying for an anatomy test, or precalc, i can't remember. who am I?