What Makes You, You?

why is everyone asking me that lately? "what makes you, you?", "what goes on in your head?" "why is your mind such a labyrinth?" you're the fourth person this (still infantile) week to ask me that.

i don't know what it is that makes me me.  It's the little circles that converge into nothingness and diverge outward into oblivion.  It's the cozy bird's nest with the newly hatched eggs.  It's all that's vile and cruel and hellish in this world, and all that is pure, gold and innocent.  It's venomous and it's sweeter than the elixir of life.  it's delirium tremors and the soothing calm after two shots of whiskey.

i'm in a bad place today, a place that i had been looking for, but don't want to be in now that I've found it. 

excuse me for being mad, but i've been to the hatters for tea, and he gave me such a pleasant purple bowler as a parting gift.  the day's excitement has caused me to be so jittery that I can hardly contain my quiet and sane composure.