This is my take. I like poetry, and this is kind of interesting. Who's the author?
Suspicious about the truthfulness of my own lies, I admire that the implicit contradiction within every incomplete action vanishes under a cumulus of false truths that clogs reality. As simple a reality as obscene:
Today I woke different. Today I meditated. Today I’m drunk.
I made this for you, and for that part of you that is being born, that part of you called me that blind the eyes of logic with the pleasant and shining darkness someone, sometime, dared to call love... or madness.
