The brainchild of a deranged genius who sought to make only perfection, not because she herself was perfect, but because she knew she could achieve it. That one thought that ran constantly through her mind was so simple and so deluded that it would only make sense to someone like her. At times I wondered what had made London into the monster that she was. What had been done to her to drive her to such madness? Whatever it was that she had endured must’ve been something so hideous and traumatic, that creating us was her only escape. I wondered how she had endured all these years; how her anguish and pain had not yet driven her to take her own life. Maybe by creating us as she did she would let the pain from deep inside of her boil to the surface and take shape. I feel a sharp whirring inside of me. This is something that only happens when I become determined which is what I assume to be my adrenaline surging. I never like the way that it feels because I’m sometimes afraid that my insides will dislodge and I’ll collapse into a junk heap.
