I really don't know why I have written it… Maybe, you will find the answer.

There is no soft sunlight of a day and no caller darkness of a night for you. You don't feel gentle kisses of light summer breeze and sharp ice blows of winter blizzard on your face. You just don't have it…

We are what we remember. And what we dream.

You don't dream and don't remember. You just race forward, forward, up hill and down dale, for another victim, for a vicarious body, for a new masque.

Deprived of reveries, you have become despair. Living without dreams, you have fallen mad. Lost your memories, you became to seek out for forgotten, but you didn't know what you wanted to find.

You're trying to fill the hollow inside of you sneaking into non self souls and taking away the most innermost that a living being owns – his identity, his memory, his feelings. But the Hunger is everlasting; you will not outrun and hide from it, buy off with stolen dreams and tears. You are escaping from emptiness and don't understand that you are emptiness.

At the unending ball in honor of your murderer and your nature you change gloves and masques, every time getting on new ones for a dance with another prey. And every time this dance is different: with one it's a blistering, fiery tango – and your partner burns out so quickly that you can barely shake down his dust from your hands before to start again your blind hunt. With the second it's a sad waltz when an forlorn one's skin slowly becomes thinner and eyes lose their former scintillation… A soft leisurely agony which these waltzings scarcely moving their lips call fight. It doesn't matter, however. The end is always the same.

You stand surrounded by ancient columns, in the middle of a night-sky kingdom of golden and silver grains, falling from above like snowflakes. Snow-sand crisps beneath your feet, flaring and visible even under the mantle of the darkness. But this darkness wasn't something gaunt here, it carries rest and silence, shrouding this mysterious place with thin and unbreakable mantle, where you came passing an old keep and an unmanned neglected village. The very heart of somebody's soul.

You stand and do not breath, and the blood doesn't well in your empty veins. But you inhale a smell of broken hopes and unconquerable resolve that fly in the air, and your body, shadowy and faceless, feels the touches of the dominant warm.

You stand and do not breathe, and the heart doesn't beat.

A light flash that has glowed the night kingdom for a second and two figures come from the open portal.

You only clenched your weapon, reaper of souls and spirits. Despair, anger and hunger. You have recognized your Masque.

You don't know who is it, a man or a woman, and old man or a helpless child, a hero or a sham. You don't look nor faces nor actions. But you can feel his fear and ache, decision and even mercy, you know the ancient darkness has already touched him or her. He is scared, he's defeated, he (or maybe she?) wants to scream and run, but he stands still and doesn't move.

You cannot understand who's at the Masque's side. But you don't need it: it's quite enough to see how strong his feelings are if he followed your Masque. He is trembling with horror and you see how deeply desperation has swallowed him. But he just walks up to the other, as if the breathing and heart beat of the Masque calms him down. And the Masque cozy up to him in the strange fit – and you are fascinated with their attachment. The Hunger applauds. Their feelings are bright and full of life, despite of the fact that the Masque is fading and dying, and the other, that didn't spare himself, knows that. And you want to touch these feelings, such real and tangible here, but you know when you touch them the colours will fade. And you suddenly catch the eye of the Masque's companion, hear his silent words. "You'll have nothing" – a tacit whisper of someone who has lost his faith in victory. An excellent candidate for a new Masque in the next play. It is as though your actual Masque has discovered your plan, and his or her heart suddenly stops in dread. And the Masque extends the arms to you as if wanting to tip something that was once your face

You stand and do not breath, and your eyes are blind.

You don't know who they are and what colour of eyes they have. But suddenly even your hunger disappears for a moment – hand, the hands of the Masque!

A silver incurvate blade… A sear near the very heart…

And… a masque! The Masque dons not a masque, not, but a face!

The boy, the woman, the Wall…

But the Hunger awakes…

After all, that's just another dance. Yes, it have been lasting slower than usual. The end is always the same.