he would touch with his finger grotesquely contorted and knew that he revelled in the ugliness that ultimately served his ego as the touched thing cracked into pieces and he danced on the shards

it is impossible now to write without feeling pretentious; knowing or believing that this one time may be read by a friend makes me feel ridiculous in writing it, ah, why? Because I know that I am writing not for myself anymore and yet write such things in a public forum--but for some odd reason the written journal is not proving to be tempting recourse...