It's funny, really, how things lose their luster with time. How what was once the axis that you turned on has no shine, now. How perfection is so dull that even the sun can't imply a refraction on its chapped lips.

Those skeletons in the catacombs of his mind spew rhymes like tomorrow might astound the darkness, frighten it from where it's been so comfortably hidden in the largest niche of his mind. Memories have dug out the alcove with grotesque intentions; they sip the bloodlust like afternoon tea.

And of these unredressed crimes, he knows no more than she, or they. Anyone, really, who passes with pleasantries on their tongues can understand how he's fettered his accomplices into this precluded scheme. It's so simple to take advantage of death's own retribution, for it mirrors his misery with masochistic eyes.

What's more is the predictable immolation of his last dying wish, of his only fighting angel. It's all too simple, the utter deceit, to practice imposture upon those with such a desperation for innocence.

And so the impunity is continuous, every victimized form greeted with the same sphinx-like onyx eyes, every crystalized drop of life adding to the pixilated graveyard in the etchings of his delirium.

Really, what more can you ask from a head that harbors vengeance? What more is there to request from a hand that harbors murder?


Mmmmhmmm . . . Yeah. Sorry it's been over a week. I've been trying to be puntual, but Amy and I went on a face painting adventure on Friday for community service. It was rather amusing.

No beta for this one, because . . . Because. My reasoning is too abstract to spell out in letters.

Savvy?

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