I am misunderstanding almost everyone.

I really don’t get people.

I can’t read them or their minds.

I misunderstand their intentions.

I think most of you are lying anyway, mostly to yourselves.

I am comfortable being alone.

I have my thoughts and books and the mad souls.

I like writers, especially those who show intention.

You might not like them as people or their characters, but at least they show you a glimpse of reality.

The mad are less ambiguous. They spout their truth. However, it is difficult to be present in such huge amounts of rage and disappointment.