Held behind walls. Walls. Never cared about walls. They mean nothing. Not like friends. I'm glad to see they know me. But they're not friends. Funny. They don't like me but I follow otherwise. They are scared. Scared of me. They're not friends they're prey. I like prey. Prey is my purpose. Prey means I own someone. Someone to stalk, to hunt. To kill. Yes, killing is good. I break out, I follow, I kill. Nothing else. Unless, one wants to visit. I welcome visits. They can stay as long as they want. Friend or prey. Either way, they die. But it was never my intent. They die on their own will. Their bodies are fragile. One touch, they collapse. Pathetic. They should try to stay longer but all they do is run and scream. They can't bear to be around me. And yet- I'm not sad. The sounds of terror and rot are music to my ears. Ah yes, rot. Everything I touch rots. It's beautiful. I paint this world with blackened hand, till everything rots everyone dies, and I am alone. But never truly alone.
