Insanity IP, 500mg.

When you type 'help I'm' on Tumblr, the suggested tags include 'help I'm in love', 'help I'm bored', 'help I'm alive' and 'help I'm dying'.
What I'd actually begun to type was 'HELP I'M INVENTING FICTIONAL ROLLS-ROYCES'. You're welcome.

Tweet

NCND, abbr., 'neither confirm nor deny'. (See also DKDC: 'don't know, don't care'.)

Made this. Am gleeful. Glee will probably fade in a day or so.

Apropos of nothing, I seem to have begun to write an Avengers fic. What am I doing.
In my defence, there's no other fandom in which you can turn a character's cars into people and get away with it (though admittedly this is because there are no cars in Star Trek). I'm blaming this one on you for having so many cars, Stark.

Tweet

Roses Are Red. Copper Sulphate Is Blue.

According to my pageview details, people have been trying to find out what my blog title means. Well, it's a more-or-less literal description of the blog itself, and comes from 'escape velocity' and 'blue vitriol' because I'm a geek. That's all there is to it. :P

Tweet

Driven (or; More Car Per Car)

On the twenty-eighth of December 2012, Ratan Tata retired as chairman of the Tata Group. This past week, I've read and heard a whole lot of glowing homages enumerating his achievements, praising his shrewd decisions and business acumen, his vision and willingness to take risks and surge forward. Each of these homages has made a point of mentioning the Nano - the least expensive road car in the world - and the 2008 takeover of Jaguar and Land Rover, among other spectacular financial feats.
My point, among these, may be a more humble one, but it must, I think, be made.

I may not know quite enough - yet - to consider myself an 'automotive enthusiast', but...well, I like cars. I love cars, in fact. I insisted from the moment I knew what they were on personifying them - and that insistence, over time, turned to instinct.
Life is a little odd for the Indian car lover. The traffic here is crazy, the drivers rash, the road - when there is one - rushes by in a haze of wheels and horns and compulsive tailgating. For one such as I, who sees cars as more than the product of their horsepower and tachometer reading, there's even less company - but we are a more knowledgeable public than we used to be. We have, indeed, evolved. And we have evolved with Tata at the helm.
Though the generic luxury car has its place in hearts and markets everywhere, America is the land of the pickup truck and expansive V8, Europe of the hot little hatchback and the maniacal, temperamental supercar - and India...well, India is somewhat different. A road car here needs reliability, consistency of performance in seasons and regions hot and cold and sodden. And if only to avoid scraping its chassis on our myriad potholes and speedbreakers, every road car here needs a little bit of offroader blood.
And India has that down to a certain stylized T.

We haven't always, of course. I have memories, though admittedly slightly dim, of a time when there were three types of cars on Indian roads: stiff and starched, low and sprawling, and - if one happened, like most, to be neither rich nor important - small, strictly functional and made, more or less, of plastic. Somewhere along the line SUVs turned up, the Sumo acquitting itself splendidly in that regard; slowly a variety of hatches and sedans started to leach into the Indian market, but because the country was used to small, light and oddly vulnerable passenger cars...well, small, light and vulnerable they stayed.

Until the voluptuous, quietly smiling Indica.

Never in all our days had we seen anything like the Indica, and it was no surprise that, after a period of stunned silence, the market exploded. Nor would we ever have disputed the statement that the gentle, matter-of-fact hatchback was to shape our preferences for years to come. The coddled English may have found the suspension of the 'Rover CityRover' stiff and its ride poor, but we were a potholed monsoon country of tiny, plastic, usually secondhand rattletraps that passed for passenger cars, and the Indica was the best damn thing we'd ever had.
The Indica gave us our national taste for diesel. We were drawn to it, of course, for its economy at first, slowly discarding our former Diesel = Truck mentality; little did we know that it would come to define us as automotive consumers. My own taste for diesels, too, was shaped by the Indica, and routinely finds validation in the strangest and most satisfying of ways. An idling diesel engine vibrates at approximately the same frequency as a purring cat; the purr of a cat, I'm told (and will attest), has the ability to calm and fortify, and sometimes even to heal. The parallels draw themselves.

The Indica gave us the assurance of what a car could be. We had, at this point, never really known what a car was - that driving could be a logical process rather than an esoteric skill - that a car could not merely get one from point A to B, but could do so in comfort. Cupholders were alien to us before the Indica - so were comfortably upholstered seats, and so was the sprawling space its cabin afforded. In the space of two years - overnight, in a more or less stagnant automotive market - we became discerning customers, and learnt to value ourselves in the process.
The Indica gave us power - in the abstract sense as much as in the physical. Not only did it surge along with the rumbling roar of a seventy (seventy, where we were used to forty!)-horsepower engine, but that very engine combined with the car's confident stance and sheer dependability to convince us as a nation that we could go further, push harder, stand taller, stay strong.
We drove the Indica, and the Indica drove us.

The Indica was also the first car on Indian roads that dared to bare its soul. I've always been convinced that cars have personalities; if it weren't for the road the Indica paved, I might never have had evidence to support my claim. When you drove the Indica you felt its powertrain, felt you were actually driving something, felt the connection between the steering and the wheels; you felt, once you'd moved it and learnt to control it, that you had accomplished something worthwhile. That crystal-clear relationship between cause and effect is an awareness I've felt in all Tatas to date: they are responsible, pragmatic cars, gravely protective of the fragile human beings with whose care they are charged - but when the wind is right and the  road is right and the person behind the wheel is right, they're also roguish and lovable, and never above a bit of fun. It's a rare gift to have a Tata truly open up to you - and even more so an Indica. I've never had the latter honour, but I have witnessed it being conferred, and it is a beautiful thing to behold.

Speaking of baring one's soul: most cars respond to gauging, wait for the driver to put out feelers in order to reveal their true selves; Tatas, on the other hand, radiate character. Though each individual car has individual traits, there are always underlying characteristics dictated by class, make and model, and every Tata is a confident car, perfectly aware and proud of the foundation of reliability it's built on. There is no fuss about any of them, no frills, no pretence, no unnecessary complication. What you see - simple, elegant lines, good ground clearance, regal carriage, eternal smile - is what you get. They are no-nonsense cars, for the no-nonsense consumer. And though every car ever made is said to have a 'sweet spot', that of a Tata is just as much emotional as physical - the sheer amount of loyalty each has to give is a mark of the love that goes into their creation.

I could describe the lineup car by car at this point, swamp you with wheelbases and engine specs and times taken from nought to sixty, but a) I haven't driven them all yet and b) any old journal could do that. What journals won't tell you is this: Tata makes everything from the automotive big cats (Jaguar) to the automotive wildcat (the Indigo Manza) and the automotive Felis catus (the Indica V2), and each of them is made with the same degree of care. Each of them is built to love and to hold and to last. Each of them, to their particular owner(s), is built to feel like coming home. Each of them is built to surge down any road it encounters with power and passion and a purring roar which bears the conviction that, for the time being, car and driver own the world. Each of them - not just the Indica, never just the Indica - every single Tata is more car per car.

My family and I bought our Indica in 2003 (four years after they were first launched and a year before they got a minor physical overhaul); she is, therefore, nine years old. For those nine years she has been our rock, the one constant in our lives. She's ferried us to and from school and hospitals and everything in between, she's covered kilometre after unflinching kilometre on all kinds of terrain, she's bashed herself open on more than one rock and proceeded to survive more than one botched repair job, her left-hand doors have been literally ripped apart and she's still going as strong as ever. Her smile is the smile of one who knows life; her windscreen tells the stories of ours in stickers. (She now belongs to a person of our acquaintance, who is as gentle with her and respectful of her as anyone could ever wish.)
In 2010, we walked into a showroom and caught sight of a big, black, stunningly beautiful mechanical cat. Our Manza is now two years old; I still fall further in love every time I see her - or hear or feel her purr - and I doubt I'll ever stop. Her grin is that of an equal and a protector, the grin of one who will soothe you with the purr of her engine while holding you together with the very steel that shapes her, the grin of one who dares.
In 2011 we drove our Indigo CS home. She's lighter and skippier to drive than I'd initially expected, fun-loving and whimsical to the Manza's grave intensity, and she smiles with the light of a small, happy sun.

I make no pretensions to any understanding of economics. I haven't the first clue what it might be like to possess business acumen, but cars matter to me - and for reason upon reason, Tata Motors matters to me.
Tata Motors matters to the country and the world.
Mr Tata did much more than skyrocket the Tata Group to financial (and international, no less) greatness. Yes, it's now the top brand in the country and a significant force in the world - the numbers speak for themselves - but the numbers have spoken through many, many people, and I'm here, instead, to speak for us.

Mr Tata did more than launch the unassumingly cheerful Nano, he did more than take over JLR, he did more than put India on the automotive map: he changed the lives of an entire nation. Everyone who has ever made the transition from a generic-small-passenger-vehicle to an Indica, everyone whose first car was or is a Nano, every child growing up now who has no idea what a world without the friendly Indigo or Aria would be like, every Tata owner there is or will ever be owes their attitude to cars, and in no small measure their outlook on life, to this man.

To Ratan Tata, the gentleman behind the wheel.

Thank you, sir, for the soul on our roads.



[Photograph is mine, of my 2010 Tata Indigo Manza.]

Tweet

Can't watch the Top Gear Bond-car special because I've got to study and possibly write self-indulgent Star Trek: TOS fanfiction because one of my actual protagonists won't shut up about it.
...Well, got to get that download queue started again.

Tweet

\`_´/

The stealth bomber lounges,
refreshingly constant,
with flanks of sleek metal
and eyes leonine.
"Await this December,"
said she to the Manza
with frankness and longing; 
"you will then be mine."

This is my life right now: impromptu love McWhirtles to my car. (Mine.) It isn't even a sonnet. Sonnets in my turn of phrase can be excused.

(The maniacal screencapping of two Star Trek: TOS videogames is also in progress before I have to buckle down and begin studying in earnest, but yeah.)

Tweet

Sexism in astrology, if you please.

A friend and I decided to amuse ourselves this afternoon by reading each other's Linda Goodman's Sun Signs chapters out loud.
Linda Goodman on how to keep a Leo man: 'submerge yourself'. Linda Goodman on how to keep a Leo woman: 'don't let her smother you'.
What. The actual. Fuck.

Look, horoscopes and other bullshit interest me not at all. Star signs, though, I will admit to there being something behind. ...Then again, certainly not in the way Ms Goodman says there is. Apply her reasoning to a Leo/Leo relationship and you have the woman submerging herself for the man who will not let her 'smother' him. If any woman tried to 'submerge herself' for my protagonist he'd probably either throw a fit and shake her up a little or simply silently freak and withdraw. (Ms Goodman also doesn't consider alternate-sexuality relationships, of course, but considering the publication dates that's pretty much a given.)
Her description of a Leo man fit me a lot better than the one of a Leo woman, incidentally, so basically this was one lady who talked through her dainty little sexist hat.

In happier news, I bought myself volumes one and two of Fundamentals of Flight: basic aerodynamics and aircraft structure. They are to be my recreational reading for the next couple of months.
When Cain is not Kirk, she's Scotty. Shut up.

Tweet

Say Cheese. ...Say Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.

I remember being told once that 'huge' was not a word but a cheap shortcut to 'humongous'. I still can't figure out why anyone would say that.
This was at a creative writing workshop at the British Council Library. I was five or six, had not yet realized that writing formally in the first person was emphatically not my forte, and I remember writing a piece in which I invented some sort of toy car that ran on sugar.
Science-fictional tendencies in Little Self, who knew.

(The participants were also made to think of as many words as possible using the letters in Arnold Schwarzenegger. Naturally I didn't find that as funny as I would have if I'd been somewhat older. The heartthrobs of the world have apparently never been the same as mine.)

Tweet

Not Much Use Being The Early Bird If The Worm Is A Tubelight.

So I was going to post all the configurator screencaps I had because I have stupid repetitive graphs to plot and don't want to, and then I realized I'd forgotten one shot and went back to the Aston Martin site...and then I saw that in the Virage configurator they'd moved that damned ugly circular angle-control thing discreetly to one side.
Possibly they have plans to do that for the rest as well.
So I'll have to make time to screencap all of them again.
Also now the Vanquish has turned up and damnit.
Damnit. 

PS. You still can't configure a One-77, even though they've all been sold. Aston, you stolid matter-of-fact stick-in-the-mud petrol-fuelled Brits, you.

Tweet

This Is Not My Cup Of Lassi.

Bol Bacchan was ridiculously fantastic (see also: fantastically ridiculous). If half the thought that went into this film were put into relatively serious movies...we'd have better serious movies (in other words, not utter bilge like Teri Meri Kahaani.) Not only was the movie hilarious (though it had its crass moments - got to please the galleries, I guess, but they can be survived by pretending they don't exist), it also had a clear message about religious tolerance, and even a sneaky little one about gender equality.

Also it displayed a delightfully surprising awareness of how the inherent anthropomorphism of vehicles can be used to further a visual goal. It's like the rule of three: you can use cars to enhance the comedy of a comedic situation or the drama of a dramatic one, or anything in between. This used the former: Ajay Devgn's cars (Scorpio?, Elantra, some kind of Toyota SUV which wasn't an Innova or Fortuner) all had exactly the same expression he did. And the backup Scorpios all looked exactly like stoic all-brawn-and-no-brain flunkeys should. It was hilarious. I get the impression it's Mr Devgn himself who gets the car thing (Lambo racing at Buddh International what?), but I've never seen such frankly brilliant understanding of their body language onscreen before. Respect, good sir.

Incidentally, discussion of Indian comedy films in general is the only context in which it's possible to say 'Well, I prefer grammar to sex.'

Tweet

Impartiality? When Dealing With Chauvinists?

No. No, science is not a girl thing. Nothing is a girl thing - or a boy thing, for that matter. Cars are not a boy thing, computers are not a boy thing, Sanskrit is not a boy thing: nothing that involves logic is merely a boy thing, and nothing that involves passion is merely a girl thing - either gender can possess both. And any field can involve both. Then again, men in music don't seem to face that many stereotypes, do they?

There is no such thing as an '[insert gender here] thing'. You're your own individual: you don't have to be a brash leather-clad cricket fan if you're a boy, and you don't have to wear miniskirts and goggles and lipstick if you're a girl, let alone if you're a female scientist. You can be a female scientist if you like to wear miniskirts and goggles and lipstick, but you can also be one if you wear denim - or even if you are the kind of quirky person people think all scientists are. You don't have to conform to any stereotype in order to be, well, anything.

Science doesn't bloody discriminate. I'm sorry, European Union, but Jim Kirk had it right. There's only one kind of woman - or man, for that matter: you either believe in yourself or you don't. 

For the moment, Cain out.

Tweet

I Like To Torture Myself With Logic.

Dear, dear Delhi University, I'm fond of you and all (on occasion) and I do understand your intention when it came to implementing the semester system was to try and make Indian higher education more similar to that offered abroad, but you overlooked a rather important thing in connection with all that jazz: electives. There are, for instance, two compulsory physics courses for us chem honours students; the first pertains to optics and vector calculus and a fraction of mechanics, while the second is more electronics-focused. The general idea, no doubt, is to help one diversify intellectually - an admirable intention, certainly, but how about actually allowing one to diversify? I'll give you the fact that particle interactions are relevant to chemistry, but that's about it. I'll also give you the fact that our maths courses are kind of relevant, so there's that. On the other hand, there's English: Technical Writing. There's also bio. Cell theory and that whole jingbang. Whatever happened to biomolecules?

What I'm saying is, continuing from the physics angle, supposing you offered a choice of two or three courses, all of which included particle interactions but were otherwise different? I, for instance, would freakin' love more mechanics: kinematics, dynamics, hydraulics, engines; traction, torque and thrust. I'm sure there are people who would freak out on more electronics - or more optics. Or more nuclear stuff and radioactivity. Just sayin'.

As for me, engines. Give me engines.

Tweet

HI, SWEETHEART *loses voice*

So I was at the annual fête (oh, caaarnival they call it now) of my erstwhile school (dear me, I feel so old) when my dad, who was parked outside in Caffeine, messaged me saying he was parked in front of a Lamborghini. At which I squealed and drove my friends crazy until we all somehow barreled out to the gate, whereupon I took gleeful advantage of possessing a David.

He or she was a Gallardo Bicolore in a rather violent shade of orange - and I'll admit I don't like Bicolores because they look like sort of wannabe Spyders and I don't like convertibles - but it was a Lamborghini and it was tiny and purry and made of sex - not, incidentally, unlike KK.

I kinda talked to it (rather a quick gabble actually), and conclusively proved myself not as eloquent in hurried speech as I am in writing (or flirtation with showroom-bound specimens) - again, not unlike KK.





And now you're never going to be able to forget the KK/Lamb analogy. XD

YES I WATERMARKED THE PHOTOS WHAT DO YOU TAKE ME FOR

Tweet

Oye, Cineraria, How Was Your Paper?

Semester exams are done with. I am now going to play Mario.

I am also going to get down to the various writing tasks I have. These include original fiction of several subcategories (remind me to read up on gunshot wounds and stuff), fanfiction of one category, innumerable blog posts and at least three Cain Express posts. Oh, and random poetry. Because I have to bash my head in even for random poetry.

Note to self: must experiment with David. Exposure settings, custom colours, whatnot. Tripod, possibly. He is an able camera, and I must be able to do him justice. I have things I need to photograph.

I also have a lot of reading to do, but currently writing takes precedence. I HAVE HAD ENOUGH, GODDAMNIT. I WILL WRITE NOW 'KAY THANKS.

Another note: must get self a new Pal cassette. (Dear lord, Sony BMG, why haven't you released Pal on LP yet? I would buy the hell out of that record. And hug it and stare at it and grin at it like an idiot.)

And I need to compress the concert videos. They are not actually very long (>.<), but still manage to be freaking awesome (insert steamed-up smiley here).

I also need to go through my class notes for this semester and put up a few choice snippets. Inorganic has been pretty delicious this past month. X)

Speaking of delicious, I also need to get on the Aston Martin configurator screencapping. *pokes previous post*
The Viraaage *dies*

Also when I encounter letters that come in sets of three, I suddenly have this maniacal desire to put a 'freakin'' before the last one. NC Freakin' R. BM Freakin' W. mg freakin' h. (yes, that last is the formula for potential energy and has nothing whatsoever to do with anything I've been studying for at least the past year and a half.)

Incidentally, I am damned if I'm not going to learn to drive this vacation.
please, Caffeine, stop being so sexy

Tweet

The Sky Is Yours.

I don't know much about many specific planes except the B2 Spirit stealth bomber, which I am in love with and fantasize about and want to write fiction about and holy foxtrot strafe me, baby. That said, I'm pretty fascinated by the not-yet-in-production HondaJet. Knowing me, that's probably because of the fact that its engines are above its wings. I find this adorable. Though if its nose got any longer they'd probably be able to get away with calling it the Swordfish. XD


Screencapped from the HondaJet website.


Snagged from the 'Tube.

And the Spirit is female, but the 'Jet? I can't really decide.


In other news, Aston Martin now allows visitors to their website to configure the Virage (glory!), the Rapide (four-door glory!) and (sport-coupé glory!) the V8 Vantage S. I know what I'm doing as soon as I have, say, three hours at a stretch to spare. That will probably be later than sooner, but it's Aston Martin. It needs to be done justice.

Of course, it also allows one to configure the Cygnet, but since the Cygnet doesn't exactly show signs of growing up to be a swan anytime soon...I shall just keep waiting for the One-77 configurator. *sigh*

Tweet

Le spring cleaning. Autumn cleaning. Dilli-Ki-Sardi cleaning. Whatever.

HI THERE.
It's been ages since Cain was here last, sometime during which she realized she had a fairly decent amount to say. She has therefore decided to resurrect this blog.

I am, naturally, no longer in class ten. Instead I'm a college fresher who dabbles in...shall we say a lot of other things. However, I'm also still the same insane perfectionist when it comes to writing, which means I take a hell of a long time to come up with stuff. I do intend to be at least intermittently active, though, if no more.

Incidentally, has anyone noticed the FREAKY THING that has happened to Gmail? I lost control a little while writing in to Google about it.
"The old Gmail is nice and cosy. You could drink coffee with the old Gmail; the new one would probably toss its cup back in a jiffy and say 'Sorry, got to rush.' "
I hope their bots have fun trying to decipher that.

Tweet

*heeheehee*

Put this video up on the 'Tube; explanation included. If you're familiar with the title track of Tum Mile, you'll get what I'm drivin' at.

Tweet

Wonders, Wishes and Sighs

So I read the book (Eats, Shoots and Leaves by Lynne Truss) when I was...*thinks* ten years old. And was quite delighted, since I'd noticed a lot of punctuation errors like the ones documented, and was beginning to despair of anyone (including my parents) ever seeing the grammatical light. That, however, was an age at which I was accustomed to accept any opinon, so long as it was stated firmly enough, as correct.

Therefore.

Having come across it and immediately thought of the delight it gave me during that 2004 trip to Shimla, I picked it up again a few days ago. And was immediately surprised at what seemed to be my new assertive avatar.

For one:

It is time to confess that I have for many years struggled with one of the lesser rules of the apostrophe. I refer to the "double possessive", which is evidently a perfectly respectable grammatical construction, but simply jars with me, and perhaps always will. We see it all the time in newspapers:

"Elton John, a friend of the footballer's, said last night . . ."
"Elton John, a friend of the couple's, said last night . . ."
"Elton John, a friend of the Beckhams', said last night . . ."

Well, pass me the oxygen, Elton, and for heaven's sake, stop banging on about your glitzy mates for a minute while I think. A friend of the footballer's? Why isn't it, "a friend of the footballer"? Doesn't the construction "of the" do away with the need for another possessive? I mean to say, why do those sweet little Beckhams need to possess Elton John twice? Or is that a silly question?


At this, I was stunned to find myself thinking, Yes, goddamn it, it IS a silly question; if this bothers you, why are you writing a book about punctuation at all? Of course, that was an exaggeration, because the rest of the book is very nice indeed, but why in the world would the so-called double possessive bother anyone with an instinct for the language?



The second:

Some historians of grammar claim, incidentally, that the original possessive use of the apostrophe signified a contraction of the historic “his”; and personally, I believed this attractive theory for many years, simply on the basis of knowing Ben Jonson’s play 'Sejanus, his Fall', and reas­oning that this was self-evidently halfway to “Sejanus’s Fall”. But blow me, if there aren’t differ­ences of opinion. There are other historians of grammar who say this Love-His-Labour-Is-Lost explanation is ignorant conjecture and should be forgotten as soon as heard.
Certainly the Henry-His-Wives (Henry’s Wives) rationalisation falls down noticeably when applied to female possessives, because “Elizabeth Her Reign” would have ended up logically as “Elizabeth’r Reign”, which would have had the regrettable result ofmaking people sound a) a bit stupid, b) a bit drunk, or c) a bit from the West Country.


Now wait a minute. I appreciate the author's sentiments, but even as an ardent feminist myself, I'm not blind to the chauvinism displayed by people in general. Even now. And particularly in the said seventeenth century. Why, since ancient times the entire world has been oriented toward saying 'mankind' to describe the human race, and 'He' to refer to God, and 'Fortune knocks once at every man's door'. (And, pray, what about the women?)
And so, when they decided to apply the so-called Love-His-Labour-Is-Lost theory when it came to possessives, why shouldn't they have thought it an excellent idea to tack on an 's' to feminine possessives as well, hence 'Elizabeth's Reign'? I may be appallingly cynical, but who's to say it didn't happen like that?

Chauvinism everywhere. Even in punctuation. Well, can't say the world isn't going to the dogs now. Eh.

I mean, Oh dear, we can't just leave these ladies without possessives or they'll start agitating again! Where will it end? The abolition of the monarchy? A woman as Prime Minister? Let's just give them their possessive and be done with it, eh?...Oh certainly, sir, whatever you say; can't have that lot getting above themselves, can we, sir?

Tweet

Something that flowed from soul to paper.

     Curl up in a corner. Unobserved.
     Curl up with a notebook. Follow your calling. Do not pay heed to what happens around you.
     Do not pay heed to what people say, for they have not seen you; you are curled up in the darkest corner you can find.
     Do not listen when it is said that others put words into your head; they were in your soul before they surfaced in your mind; they sometimes flow directly from soul to paper.
     Live as they say, exist mechanically, remain within the trappings of their spirits.
     False!
     Appear to do so. Do not let them know that the reality is not what they see; that you are huddled in your corner with your notebook and your Reynolds, shut off from them altogether.
     You are not of their ilk. They represent humanity; you are therefore not human. You are entirely different from them; you are intense; you are passionate; you are an individual; there is neither desire nor necessity for you to show them who you really are.
     Never let your guard down until you find one of your kind, sometimes not even then; stay detached, maintain your identity; never sacrifice your pride.
     Never let them know exactly who you are; reveal bits and pieces, tantalize them; you have a right to maintain the sanctity of the self. Your desire is one with your calling; your love is one with your lust.
     Physically you are but one; yet there are many of you, all of whom have this in common: that you are driven by intellect, instinct, and insanity.
     You are a contradiction; you are cynical; you are hallucinogenic; you are a survivor.
     Never let them know they are in your power.

Tweet