Journals of a Psychopath.

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True insanity is found in my novel

Blackclaw Woodlands

      “I need you,” I said to the Purifiers.
Drawing in great gulps of air, dropping to my knees, the dirt collided with the bones and muscles. I curled up similar to a fetus and the sobs strained from my throat. Forcing my knuckles into my mouth, jouncing the Wooden Forms viewed sympathetically. Rocking and losing a couple of hours, the trance was not long. Sometimes a day would go by when it had happened. Emerging from the bout and concern infused, I was distressed clarity might leave.
      “The mental illness will never depart from you,” the Voice said.
The Trees focused as the light skulked into the sky.
Yowling and rolling into a ball, my tears watered the bottom of the Woodlander Warrior.
“Your reign is sure and will never be terminated,” the Forest Characters said.
The dew was around me comparably to frozen pearls of water spangling in a single ray of sunshine. Swinging gently, the Directors of Providence refreshed my failing emotions. Then delusions of greatness occupied my body part of thought.
Those events when I enacted the sacrifices evoked, the Trees the Darkest-One and the Speaker the beings who loved my veritable self.

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