It runs through the streets.

Bizarre and wild.

The purest of souls mock its essence.

They dispise its being.

The damned fear nothing of it.

And know little of its kind.

The reapers know it by heart.

They thrive off the sustenence it provides them.

They see it drain from their lifeless victims.

And gorge off the sight of it.

As the streets run crimson with blood.