No evidence of sanity, unless the dollops of whip cream he utilizes to disguise chipped paint distributed helter-skelter on his murder free walls is evidence of stability, but this isn’t an invitation for judgment. He procured his solutions by thinking creatively. The insane do this with ease. Inside his house, a former church by birth, a bacterium now, or if the walls are any indication of progress, dried whip-cream was the least of his worries and filling the brief hours before sunrise entrenched his fancy. But it’s in the process of action that a moment becomes a dandy, skipping to a tune secured inside the realm of only the I (eye) can see.