The leftovers of my imagination.
I wanted to kill Myself, but that's only because of the misunderstanding between the two. You see, I will ramble on and on about logic and reason, while Myself continues to recite lyrics of romanticism and dead poetry. This isn't to say that there exists a gap or schism between reason and poetry, but the separation of I and Myself is too great to ignore.
I can be quite the undiscovered genius, but that is usually when no one else is around (except, of course, for Me and Myself). This intrinsic intellectual nature was born out of the love for curiosity and knowledge, however, the emotions of life were not transferred into the mind of I. Myself, on the other hand, is not as cold and calculated as I. Feelings; emotions; a search for the personal soul. These concepts are not foreign to Myself, and they govern the day to day attitudes of Myself.
If you are still following along, allow I and Myself to thank you. Me, much unlike the other two, cares very little if you continue on with your reading.
At this point, it is obvious one may ask, "Where is Me during all of this?" Me is the silent type, but don't let Me mislead you. The absence of Me's explanation or description does not omit Me's presence. I will be hesitant to introduce Me, and Myself? Quite embarrassed. If you consider I and Myself to be much unlike the other, then Me is a whole other species.
Me is primitive; Me is selfish; Me is barbaric. I usually keeps Me locked away in the darkest recesses of the brain, but somehow Me discovers ways to escape time, and time again. Me is attached to I and Myself by association only, and they share no relation. You may be quick to judge Me, as I and Myself usually are, but please spare all of your opinions until the very end. The introduction of Me has delineated from the matter at hand, so we must all digress.