psycho 1960.

how convenient. how classic. the typical i'm not the only one type of thing. in terms of feeling, he could say — if it's safe — that he could relate. that feeling of having something inside of you that you didn't even know exists.

sure he'll trust it. self to self. personal trust. not joe and love, because that mirroring is a disaster. and as if he'll admit he don't trust himself either. no — his pride won't take it and he knew it. that's betrayal of self, after all.

joe is that guy. a lover boy. a stalker. a husband. a father. a lover. a paramour. a cheater. a scammer. a goddamn dexter. well touché. mental? he don't care, cause that's him caring.

walk joe, walk. hold it, wing it, so self could run in the future. be better. be more practical. sharper. but oh dear, he hadn't intended to lose his mind this early in life.

pictures moved. windows open after being left locked. curtains pulled to the right when only pull it to the left side. it must've been a mistake. a fault in his memory swimming in blood that weren't his own.

but it wasn't.

insanity. instability. obsession. love. the beginning of everything is love, the lowest form of romance. a lie in a lie. a memory came knocking, a wink from nine feet below. the first kill. the original sin.

you.

"... supposed to be dead."