The question of being [retarded].
...at least three times a day I have to find a mirror or a puddle of water, slicked with municpal oil of course, broken glass works too -I need these to look at myself more clearly than my feeble mind can picture on its own. The mind needs the brain for this; each time I get a view [filtered through self-aggrandizing filters] -or- glimpse, rather... of what it is to be myself and knowing that I can't possibly know that I know myself I get this cold chill that runs parallel to my spine but not really up it -just kind of next to it... Dread, and the coming of nothing. In a way, it is humbling -but in a more real way it makes me want to vomit my insides on the ground and wish for ...well, we know what we wish for when we get that feeling.
