282 days.
I am bound now to a physical naturalist, but then what am I? Unnatural, I am the choked back sighs of those that stifle cries rather than fully embrace our most base desires and try to eek out a life between lies.
I love them. All their flaws of a human nature that make them irresistible to my chaotically minded self. I see how hard it is to feel beyond your capability, even if I don't understand it fully. Tragedy is the most sublime beauty of all.
A broken heart is my insignia. I am of the born wrong, a child of the tragic. It's not something I claim lightly for I bear the weight of the unspoken sentimentality, the fondness of nostalgia, the comfort of the familiar.
Going round in circles, never venturing within, the space Reserved for high society whims, flights of fancy abound, but I know only the continuous curve of the ever looming horizon.
My only hope is the steady incline of fractions, fractals spiraling gradually away, as my own radius barely extends between myself and the oncoming dawn. I pray for progress, that beyond the three acts there is a remainder that is infinite and contains my immortal self.
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