The irrational urge some of us get to cast ourselves off of a nearby precipice… a microcosm of a more universal impulse. We are pulled as if by an invisible tide towards destruction, our friends helpless onlookers as we walk silently and open-eyed into the mouth of the dragon. You know the signs, you can see the trend, and you could no sooner turn it aside than stall the gears of time itself. We are driven by a childlike need to disassemble, to take a apart the very things which sustain us. It is the strong force that opposes love, entropy lying coiled like a spring at our center. Only a hint of perversity at first, it builds like magnetic repellence to irrisistability as you approach. We are serial arsonists of the soul, fascinated by the flame, assembling a portfolio of beautiful breakdowns. We watch as if sedated, as if it were only a television drama. The mad child takes the stage and directs the play to it’s futile denouement. The sun sets, and the actors retire to empty rooms and cold beds to ask unanswerable questions of the darkness.