Why do we waste our lives in a slave trade capitalistic system? The nauseating, soul-destroying 9-5; the cramped office blocks that resemble an ant’s nest; the instilled hierarchy of the social classes where privilege and poverty are passed through blood heritage.

I love that sweet smell of decay that surrounds me in forests and woods. A kind of mulchy, deep, rich rot that has no connotation of death or ending, but rather of life and age. A sense of perpetual destruction and rebirth.

It seems to me more than ever that I am a victim of introspection. I am possessive about time alone. If I have not the power to put myself in the place of other people, but must be continually burrowing inward, I shall never be the magnanimous creative person I wish to be. Yet I am hypnotized by the workings of the individual, alone, and am continually using myself as a specimen.
 — Sylvia Plath

‘Chapter 1. Illusions’

‘Chapter 2. Sleepless nights’

‘Chapter 3. Mirrors’

‘Chapter 4. It Speaks With Me’

‘Chapter 5. Opposing Voices’

‘Chapter 6. Desensitisation’

‘Chapter 7. The Thirst’

‘Chapter 8. I Must Kill Myself’

‘Chapter 9. Re-awaken’

‘Chapter 10. Levitation’