"And the world opened up to us, the circle grew wider in the underbelly of the grimy city of New York. No one could know for sure if it was the alcohol and the other forms of poison that infected our bloodstreams or the feeling of intoxication that came with the idea of being a writer. But we weren't just any writers we were the writers, born from the internecine of death. It seemed as if fate was what brought us all together, fate that a revolution should occur. It was this movement of Cabal that created a reveloution. Whether it was for drugs, homsexuality, or the excessive use of vulgarity neither of us knew. But with these words we were ignorant to the harrowing Boy Blue and his downwards spiral into the dark abyss of second-degree murder, him being behind bars is what ultimately killed one of the greatest visionaries the world has never seen, leaving no broken hearts. And in this abyss, another great mind followed, the Dipsomaniac Angel who wrote words that held a certain vulgar elegance. But unlike my beloved Boy Blue he reached his potential, or at least half of it. His art held no limits but that of his own, and it's those limits that destroyed him. For his self-catastrophic actions are what in the end let him drink himself into oblivion. And though these lost souls led to their own demise in some sorts, they were- no are the grandest virtuoso's of words this life and the next have ever seen."