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The Greatness

Greatness is an artform. One that he believes he's perfected.

One may call it narcissism or egotism, but neither of the terms work. If you were to ask him, he would explain in great detail all the ways he doesn't fit the criteria for NPD. He, however, picks his battles like he picks which button up shirt he will wear and how he picks what cases he solves: with careful consideration. Very, very careful consideration.

In fact, he can be so precise in regards to every decision he makes some people forget the way his desks are always rife with chaos. But little quirks just add and add onto glory. Glory that never ends, that's him.

Never ending. Never stopping. And all you have to do to see is hear the way the stars sing his praises to the coral in the sea and to the wind that perfectly blows away the smoke on his lips as he breaths out pure ecstasy.

But it's not Molly that he's smoking.

No, he picks his poisons like he picks all things. He plays his sanity like a violin, and that tune plays alongside his swirling vision. Fuzzy hues of grandiosity and a slowly numbing symphonic solo played by heaven's greatest gift. And he's so very, very careful. More careful with this than most things. The only remains he leaves of his preferred poisons are the smell of burning plastic mixed with nothing at all.

A few sprays of Bleu de Chanel Eau de Parfum usually cover it up.

Don't you see how much effort goes into perfection? How he deserves every ounce of praise? How he deserves all? Every ounce of pleasure and joy and greatness and fame and more? And more? And more? And more?

Generated by the wheels that turn as the fuzzy stench of chemicals combined with warm grapefruit and lemon fill his mouth as he exhales. The only stars he could see from here are ursa major and his hazy sense of self. The rest are lost in the midnight ink of stellated animosity. But the remaining stars aren't the brightest compared to Venus and Mars.

He suddenly wishes the entire sky were blacker than the deepest bruise as his fingers twitch, and that he could silence the song that they sing. After all, he doesn't know what acerbical gossip the cosmos could spread about him. They could call him a narc. A doper. Perhaps the stars defame his name.

And what would a tortured artist do, if not lament of his deserved greatness?