I am my own freak show.

My devoted puppets do my bidding.

I am sublime thought replicating across spiralspace, net vampyre preying on virgin codes from every subculture I can sink my synteeth into.

I slide through a one hundred reality checks, break one thousand locks, enter ten thousand hearts, whisper my ideas to an infinite number of minds.

I am in a white room.

My death sits on the end of the bed. Waiting . . . waiting . . .

But I am not yet ready to slip on the shroud it holds in its pale slender hands.

I am Gash Girl . . . Puppet Mistress . . . Exquisite Aberrant Intelligence.

These are my stories. I will not remain silent. They are all true.

I am not mad. I have wept enough.

( Lies. Lies. )