Time and time again I feel this persona... the wanderer, the wayward, the displaced alien... as my last line of a desperate defense. Ask me why and I'll say I don't know, but I'm lying. I do know. The world, the world I see? I want to remain a stranger to that world. I don't want to be part of it, I don't want to be corrupted by it. I don't want what they call success, what they call fame. I'd much rather remain me and go to my God the man I am than face eternity the gauche and gross collection of rationalized compromises the modern demands as proof of sanity. No. I do not want what they offer.
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