you're not like the other little pieces of flesh who waste their precious thoughts on mundane reality. the things you speak to me and whatever you do seem to be controlled by some other force than this sickening drive we call intuition.

i've studied you--all your actions and your beliefs and i've determined that there is no speck of humanity in your soul. your thoughts are pure, though not in the way one normally associates with purity. the good intentions you sometimes fail to achieve still portray your every motivation.

you are my hope for all things material. sometimes you scare me into thinking that everything around me deserves to be reconsidered and, during those moments i want you to comfort me--the sick, needy human i am--with your words that are so ethereal and your body that is too real.

you're much too good for me to simply label you as a "human." to equate you with some of the individuals who share that title is completely unjust and, in my opinion, one of the evilest sins.

but i need some way to define you, some rebuttal to this linguistic absurdity in my head. my need to create a category for you betrays my own humanity. what more can i say for your marvelous existence?

you are.. ?

you are.

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