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Shower in the dark day
Clean sparks diving down
Cool in the waterway
Where the baptized drown
Naked in the cold sun
Breathing life like fire
Thought I was the only one
But that was just a lie

One thousand shattered mirrors could never erase this grotesque image from my mind. The chains of one million addictions can never ease the discomfort of my consciousness. Every waking thought centered on this weak, despicable, hideous shell. In stance and walk and all movement--secrets are laid bare. Nothing left, but our eyes cannot meet. Clearly, repugnance dances across your face as you silently laugh at the misshapen husk shambling before you. Trapped in this decaying tomb, trapped in this wretched prison--confined to flesh.

I'm ashamed of running away from nothing at all. I just can't deal with these feelings any more. But when I look around at the fiends who would needle away my resolve, who would recreate me in their image, I recognize their insignificance. And so the winds of history disperse the fog of mysticism. The weeds of technology, those vast mechanical growths, release their stranglehold on culture. We call to the blackest sun to wither away. And I seek an end. If I could but see it. And by the actions of my own hands, it is revealed. This new epoch when mastery has turned to fellowship, when those with a hatred for life have seen an end to their own: these intellectuals who replaces facts with their mythologies, these tiresome brutes who violently sustain might makes right pedagogy. A new world springs from the corpse of the old. Our most ephemeral desires and our most treasured dreams lay the foundation for a brilliant new reality. Social interaction is no longer defined by dutiful sadism. The death of the system, the system of death. This will be the day.

Red am I in battle. Red the ravens at my heels. I will keep no terms with my enemies. Always on the point of perishing, always in danger--but to give an inch, to make any compromise, a single concession--is defeat. Burn away these eyes that seek weakness. May their quests lead them to the wolves-- to fang, to claw, to axe, to sword.--tearing, ripping, cleaving, left by the wayside of man. Red am I in battle. Red the ravens at my heels.

Heads shake at self inflicted misfortune. Hands wrung of responsibility. Ears covered from the ringing trumpets of fact. Father created from the black froth swept off the rim of the cauldron of creation. We are maggots, and we are worms writhing in the marshes of refuse. Flee! Flee! Sink to hands and knees. Crawl through the muck, shrunken genitalia beating against bellies and thighs. Wretched, disgusting beasts. That tree which no man knows has been hewn to it's roots and set ablaze. Our faces are bleached in its ashes.

My mistakes light up the sky, a horde of blazing stars through night's black curtain. They guide me safely along an endless passage over dangerous waters. From the summit of a towering mountain, leaping at once to a jagged shoreline, flesh and muscle impaled. I have destroyed that bridge, but the gift of strength and defiance can never be damaged. If my haven is but a weight chaining me to stagnation, then I must call to the thunder to break these bonds, escape into the chaos of the burning sands, and surround myself in self destruction. And surround myself in deconstruction. So it is the consequence of exploration and expansion. Alone--self discovery. Recognition of power. Isolate intelligence. I am the emissary. I am the balance. I am the beginning. I am the end.

Waves crash down, unrelenting, unending. We are stone shaped by the force of its abuse; colossal mountain ranges eroded to jagged shorelines; aged cliff tops, decrepit and helpless; earthen cadavers now ripe for mining to the very core of our souls. Or so we would have you think. Magic is willpower. Willpower is magic. Self-knowledge is the key to the perfect control of the will. After destroying the decades of our youth, after being crushed under the pillars of heaven--the bonds we make and the bonds we break ever come crashing down.

Through a boggy haven was cut a swath three miles long. Into it you dumped tar and concrete, hate and fear. Standing so tall, even Death would tremble to take you. Running shoulder to shoulder with lions and wolves. But you're nothing. A pack of liars. Fakers. Cowards. Trapped now forever in this ghost town. Shambling spectres haunting these streets. Boundaries not set by concrete and bars--boundaries are set by neighborhoods and bars. You are paralyzed by apathy and cloaked in jaded elitism. Your wasted potential surrounds me, binds me, suffocates me. I yearn to retreat from your fortresses of bloated excess. My ears fall deaf to your stammering quips and shrill complaints. We stand eternal on the cusp of something great destined to always fall short. Decimation may be our only saving grace. Or will we stand eternal?

Every four years the two-headed monster rises from its pit, and we have a choice between this head or that. Their party line separation is a phantasm haunting reason. It's a choice between this diseased hand or that diseased hand. We are criminals who defy law. They are criminals who defy freedom. Endless heads of a bureaucratic hydra, and so the smiling wounds we draw across each neck. While they lounge in the decadence of their capitols and dream up new rules of social conduct, we shall sink a knife in every Caesar, we shall aim our rifles and fire at every president, every senator, every statesman. Wake up. There won't be any change. In the sewer of capitalism, only the scum will rise.

Unbound, unrepressed, untamed, uncontrollable, unknown. No longer cowering beneath the roles hewn to our beings, we shall reclaim our vital energy, unique and unpredictable. Backs bent no more in the mad race of resource production and consumption. That web of domination, that web of mediation. Of limited experience and clearly defined boundaries. We rebuke this overgrown wasteland, teeming with the repulsiveness of pavement and cement. A concrete wilderness? No. An everlasting shrine to submission and death. A false wilderness prostrate and conforming to the will of man. Those vines and shrubs that would bend the knee, a caricature of freedom, an affront to life. We seek that which can only be found in the unmappable, the unknown, the unknowable. And from this venture we can never retreat. We have been recruited in blood. And the blood sings.

The demonic seed of European imperialists has swollen with ripeness. Its blossoms signal moral decay, salivating to conquer. A diseased concept of unalienable rights. A distorted view of sexuality. A plague upon evolution. Industrialists and aristocrats--rotting in your fancy suits, burning like cigars hung between weak lips, choking beneath the smokestacks of progress. Protectors and providers--teachers of self loathing, sentinels of the abattoirs, guardians of status quo. May you choke on your own masochistic sermons and be ground beneath the heels of conformity. My dearest comrades and young rebels--We're just more of the same. Bourgeois shackles of pacifism and inaction enabling oppression. We are accessories to slavery. Bound together by invisible reins. Pulsing through the veins. The same tumultuous, glorious blood.

Open your eyes and exalt--Exalt! in this fragile world, in this knowing flesh, in this very moment. We have forsaken the delusions of Comprehension as we are born into the certainty of the Sensual. We are the stone that starts the avalanche. We are the cough that spreads the plague. We are the spark that lights the inferno. Relinquish those wretched controls of knowledge and experience, those conditions which hinder Desire's progress. Cut away esoteric corruption and seek unfettered fulfillment. In defiance of the sages. In defiance of the intelligentsia. Useless philosophy, theory, and poetry must be heaped upon the cairn. See them consumed in Action--sweet, reckless Action. Join our sad tears and dance on the blackened bones of gods. Beyond the shadow of the citadel, there is no such thing as time, there is no such thing as negation. There is only this tangible, perceptible world. There is only this moment, this very moment.

This freezing chamber is inescapable. These ashen walls are insurmountable. Empty sockets see nothing but black, black, black abyss. Endless gloom. Endless solitude. A lifeless form. Twilight eternal. The current sweeps their bodies to shore. The last reminder of the death they endured. Of the oceans depths, they are now sure. No escape. Reaper, join us. Father of death, return to us. Empty sockets see nothing but black, black, black abyss. We are all lost between hell and the sea. The surface is shimmering--just beyond our reach. Why? Why have we been abandoned? Shadows grasp at the ghosts of memories. There is no release. There is no end in sight. Tomorrow will never come. I cannot let go. I can never let go.

Behold! this ancient ritual, this divine act. The one clear way to transcend the boundaries of the corporeal plane is to merge our flesh. The co-mingling of our physical beings opens the doorways to the ethers, to vivid truth. I consume you and, in turn, I am consumed by you. Love is the law, love under will. The purest connection, the strongest bond. All of the struggles, the weaknesses and faults, slip away. All of the masks, the anger and secrecy, slip away. Essence unveiled. The universe revealed.

It's coming for us through the trees.
This is a message from the River.
This is a sermon from Nature.
To see us weep and moan, to see us float or drown.
This is a blighted land, infected with the virus of human greed,
corruption chokes every breath as we exalt the culture of excess.
Inhaled to the depths of our oaken roots.
Exhaled as billowing refinery pollution.

That stained light of truth I abhor, that unflinching glimmer of experience... The world has turned its back and left me with shit. Nothing inside, only void: vacant eyes, vacant mind, vacant hope. Summon the strength. I was not wrong to be afraid. The cup of life is forever poisoned. But if all in this time lies beyond my grasp, then this one final act will be fully in my control. One brief moment, and I am freed of everything, liberated from this painful existence.

Strangled in a vice grip. Lash out. This is the place where sadness breeds, the desolation in everyone. This is a wasteland full of nameless, faceless, soulless mounds of flesh, mewling, writhing in and out of existence. Long for communion. Nothing. The wailing moans, the gnashing of teeth. The deafening, endless, complete isolation. Long for an end, a day of reckoning. Into my bones, let it descend. The holy stones lay scattered at the head of every street. Urban scars wiped clean.

Ten thousand years and what do we have: schools replaced with factories. Psychic vampires consume our moans, and houses are replaced with cubicles. For too long have we been dwarfed by monuments to ourselves, toiling in the shadow of collective self worth. Dialogue has been replaced by the ravings of mind gangsters. But soon this will all be swept under Lotan's tide. The rubble of the past creates the walls of the future. Holdouts of civilization tremble. Nationalistic pride crumbles. The protracted murder of the planet ends. Forsake your barren half life. Unchain the chthonic beasts.

Fire made flesh. Renounce the throne. Screams split the sky. Fall to the sea. My heart has been reshaped in flames of treachery, bent beneath the hammering blows of alienation. It's now a dark thing of iron resolve and unyielding hatred. Grinding my teeth in contempt... Free will made flesh. Renounce the divine. With black sword in hand, my steps carry me back to my tormentors. I realize all the grim sternness of my own cold building with its wealth of breathing misery and my own desolate heart to endure it all. But it is the curse of greatness that it must step over dead bodies to create new life. And now there is change. The serpent has turned its head to strike its master. Those suffocating under dominion have broken their chains. Privilege destroyed. Wealth ground to dust. Power laid to waste. Grinding teeth in contempt, with black swords in hand, stepping over dead bodies, and creating new life.

Fire made flesh. Renounce the throne. Screams split the sky. Fall to the sea. My heart has been reshaped in flames of treachery, bent beneath the hammering blows of alienation. It's now a dark thing of iron resolve and unyielding hatred. Grinding my teeth in contempt... Free will made flesh. Renounce the divine. With black sword in hand, my steps carry me back to my tormentors. I realize all the grim sternness of my own cold building with its wealth of breathing misery and my own desolate heart to endure it all. But it is the curse of greatness that it must step over dead bodies to create new life. And now there is change. The serpent has turned its head to strike its master. Those suffocating under dominion have broken their chains. Privilege destroyed. Wealth ground to dust. Power laid to waste. Grinding teeth in contempt, with black swords in hand, stepping over dead bodies, and creating new life.

We scorn the domesticated scholars in their unblemished, halcyon temples, isolated and confined in prisons of theory and vague conjecture. Tempers violent. Passions vehement. Uncaged and unburdened, we now see clearly. Only amidst the sea of refuse shall we find enlightenment pure. To be righteous we must be consumed by the most profane. And so we shall descend into the very bowels of physical consumption. Desperately searching eyes are blinded by the wild joys of boundless pleasure, writhing in the excrement of unfettered appetite. We revel in ecstasy of gratification, the union of opposites, the union of sames. Mask kissing mask, image caressing image, in the sty of self-absorbed enchantment. We are unruly beasts driven by desire. And we delight in our filth. We glory in the visceral, wholly-felt, wholly-witnessed. We relish unfeeling, all-feeling detachment. And you know that I love you. Here and now, not forever. I can give you the present. I don't know about the future.

We reject the esoteric falsehoods, the endless ponderings and useless theories of the mystic inane. Their heads nod, and from their mouths issue lies: an answer for every question, illuminating all the mysteries. Only action is real. The past is lost, the future unknowable. Only the present can be truly experienced, can be truly known. Deny the ecological soothsayers. Deny those self-styled radicals. Reformers! Conformers! Smash the lens of rotting history. Lay your torches on every museum, filled with dead monstrosities, the superstitious veneration. No more heritage. Destroy the past completely along with its abortive children: unauthentic present and rust-encrusted future. Now, we will create ruins. And after—something new and unimagined.

Нас так лживо ведут к вязкой пучине бытия, где мы, попавшие в ловушку, утопаем в подлинных болотах, зыбучих песках урбанистической жизни.
Но город лежит бесплодный и пронизанный чумой. Мы больше не связаны с его бетоном, порядком и утилитарностью. Прочь из погибающей цитадели цивилизации, осажденной со всех сторон дикой природой. Надежду и блаженство не найти среди ухоженных газонов и возделанных полей. Нас всех отлучили от груди Матери Природы и бросили в жестоком сиротском приюте Современного Общества. Мы должны вернутся в чрево, в сердце жизненных сил, туда, где покоится могущество, где костный мозг и пульсирующая кровь. Смотри, как растворяется дыхание Матери, которое слаще ладана, ночными думы о Земле. Найди свой путь в лабиринте, тайный проход к естеству.

Those tools which freed us from otherworldly jailors have betrayed us to a pantheon of technology. What use is limitless knowledge if it cripples us to action? What use is logic if it drapes us in cruelty? Soul and intellect remain in a perpetual state of war. Moral atrophy: The heart grows frigid and distant; the skin becomes scaled and hard as rock; our kings are crowned in their dependence; our only inklings of nature are clouded and obscured. How we clutch to our breasts philosophies of violence. How we cling to these meaningless sides. We are as one suicidal force careening towards a unified end. Hopes and prayers cannot save us. But neither can your careful research. Neither can your complex statistics. Neither can your precious analyses. All of your science and reasoning is for naught.

The enchantment is broken forever. The bonds are severed. Now brush away these puppet strings. No more will I dance to the steady beat of lies. Get this through your head: We are done. The future in your eyes is washed away in reality's tide. My blind faith is washed away in reality's tide. Infallibility is washed away in reality's tide. The ebb and flow that once drew me back has ground me to shore while you're lost at sea. Wave after wave after wave after wave, the truth finally revealed. Patience worn away. Sympathy worn away. How long did we drag this out? I you had let me, would I have let it go on forever? How many times did you look me in the eye and lie right to my face? Were you just laughing away the whole time? Or did you just look at me in pity and disgust? Now we have escaped from beneath the shadow of Ouroboros. Misery perpetual. Now I've turned my back on emotional wreckage. Now I've paid respects to the corpse of hopeful dreams. Now silence surrounds. Silence can be broken by reminiscence, by self recriminations. You were right. You're not a good person. And you're not worth my time. You were right.

In the place where apathy reigns supreme, in the land of empty stares, in the land of walking corpses--animated wastes of time. This is our home. Drenched in a torrent of dissension, raining down poisoned arrows, scarring the landscape, infecting us all. Neighborhoods separated by vast gulfs of personality. Action discouraged. Decadence praised. Drink from the swollen wineskin, so full of pus. Bathe amongst the refuse and scum. Don the cloak of deceit. Take baleful curses to your lips. Death to passion. Death to innovation. Long live assimilation.

The exhortations of traditionalism ring hollow: the echoing footsteps of cross-bearing martyrs, the rejection of free will, the inability to meet the challenge of critical thought and individualism. Heads bowed and eyes closed to the joys of today. Three things only do slaves require: work, food, and their religion. Those callous-kneed ringer-kissers. The eyes of providence are blinded to the suffering that surrounds. True compassion is drowned by the baying and shuffle of the flock, bleating through a self-constructed hell. The fire in your heart is out. That once blazing light wreathed in the gloom of depravity, that unwavering standard to rally behind, that intellectual harvest--it's now barren and wasted, strangled by weeds of complacency, frozen and bloodless in passion's tomb. I must escape sentimentality; clear away these dusty, maudlin affections; turn my back on the corpse of the past; learn to accept the death of ideals. Everything has changed. Nothing has changed.

It's not my fault. I'm a victim of stolen youth, born a villain. This life impoverished, this mind untrained--where else can I turn but to violence, to the power of intimidation, to attack and abuse? Forever searching for advantage, any advantage. It's not my fault. I'm just following orders. Maintaining these sacred laws, ever obedient. Forever searching for any sign of crime, of deception. Unless crime would serve my own ends, then I attack and abuse. It's never my fault. I'm a victim of unwarranted abuse. Born to privilege, always on top, but always on guard, forever searching for any sign of threat. We are not safe.

Our sisterhood is a vast and powerful ocean, a deep well of true meaning sustaining consistent and conflicting emotions and giving life value, while the constant flow of the tides caress the sides of impassive rock and create the contours of interaction that touch every layer of society. We are free! Free of your necrophilic hatred of life. Free of your all-in-my-head self doubt. Endless is our journey through trackless void, shapeless is our movement, assuming any and all forms, elemental is our force gaining wisdom in the face of desolation, and joyful is the sound of Medusa's laughter ringing in our ears. Although we have been exploited as passive pawns in the mad dash to domination, not even the heaviest most painful nor the most subtle and gilded manacles will keep us imprisoned in the home or racked with guilt over self realization and self control, neither can we be constrained beneath a glass ceiling in the rat race of your job world. Patriarchy ends here. Wisdom is attained in the face of utter destruction. And the joyful sound of Medusa's laughter rings in our ears.

Our sisterhood is a vast and powerful ocean, a deep well of true meaning sustaining consistent and conflicting emotions and giving life value, while the constant flow of the tides caress the sides of impassive rock and create the contours of interaction that touch every layer of society. We are free! Free of your necrophilic hatred of life. Free of your all-in-my-head self doubt. Endless is our journey through trackless void, shapeless is our movement, assuming any and all forms, elemental is our force gaining wisdom in the face of desolation, and joyful is the sound of Medusa's laughter ringing in our ears. Although we have been exploited as passive pawns in the mad dash to domination, not even the heaviest most painful nor the most subtle and gilded manacles will keep us imprisoned in the home or racked with guilt over self realization and self control, neither can we be constrained beneath a glass ceiling in the rat race of your job world. Patriarchy ends here. Wisdom is attained in the face of utter destruction. And the joyful sound of Medusa's laughter rings in our ears.

And at once I realize that the hand I hold is black with corruption,
that the gilded rhetoric is a sibilant mantra meant to stifle guilt,
that the staunch discipline of tradition is merely the coward's path,
and that this descent into compromise is the death of friendship.
I've witnessed you slit the throat of the young idealist
and impale empathy to the hilt of your sword.
You wear a stranger's face. Your eyes hold no recognition.
Conceal the vastness of self-betrayal beneath the scientist's cloak,

Enter panoptic nightmare: Freedom ignored; hopes of privacy abandoned. Jeremy--your visions have been realized. Samuel--the world is now a prison. An omniscient presence permeates all. The cold gaze of our superiors spies on us from cyclopean eyes, eavesdropping from a universe away. All our movements are tracked and recorded. Blackest night no longer conceals. Emphasize normalization and observation producing only social fragmentation. Bureaucrats cling to their paperwork and technocrats cling to their data. Certificates authenticate life. Individuals defined in nine digits. Transparent society: This is not the answer. Secrets must be exchanged. Intimacy demands haven. But in the light of days nothing is sacred.

These open hands that once would have offered forgiveness and even rehabilitation are now closed fists bludgeoning flesh. A knife across your throat opens a wide, red mouth forever mute to taunts, to insults, to threats. You are nothing, empty, worthless. If only it was enough to lock you away in the deepest, darkest hole. Swallow the bitterness of my tongue. Absorb the nectar of my discharge. Feel my hatred crashing down on you like a hammer--caving in your skull, spilling to the floor all that empty rhetoric about art, betrayal, and desire. Oh, to string up your naked body like the soulless devil that you are. To stab and dismember your hanging form. Let the blood rain down and wash away this pointless shame, this unnecessary guilt, this unbearable violation. And now decorate the trees with the corpse of past transgression--adornments of vengeance, a forest of abatement, a monument to suffering. You are nothing, empty, worthless, a black hole.

The behaviors imposed by society are but a veneer surrounding the darkness, a saving illusion hollow at the core. The darkness is the truth. It stands in silent righteousness, the background that reveals the foreground. And no human fabrication can supplant it with the dustbin of progress. Actualize industrial collapse. We've stolen fire from the gods to raze their concrete tombs. We've cried our sorrows to the wind and the earth. And the pines stretch upwards, Nature's fingers straining towards the sky. They will reach out and pull down every ivory tower, destroying the elite, and returning arcane knowledge and lore to all. Now we can remove our masks and seek out vengeance, a saboteur in every occupation and a wrench in every machine. Remove your masks and find vengeance. Outside the walls of civilization lies a wilderness beyond belief and without end.

Into the dark night of the soul:
emotional balance restored;
self-limiting beliefs forsaken;
cultivate the Shadow Self;
spirituality made visceral.
We have healed the religious wounds of a stifling upbringing.
We have absolved ourselves of shame and guilt.
We have communed with our true ancestors.

This woman is Athena.
This woman is Medusa.
No longer the vehicle of her male counterpart, she is armed and militant -
yet in no way a reflection of the stolid directness,
the frank simplicity, the violent impotence of the masculine savage.
Compulsion recast as understanding.
Constraint recast as protection.
This woman is Goldman.

We have paved the roads that have led to our own oppression. Fear of the unknown, of rejection, has put brutes and villains in power. The fetters that restrict our arms and throats were cast by our own hands, just as we have set our own guards at the door. We drag boulders a thousand leagues to erect their palaces. We have established a system of education that celebrates sacrifice and creates generations of slaves. Hold hands in a ritual of deception. Hold hands in a ritual of desolation. Hold hands in a ritual of self destruction. We are the accomplice class: footstools for our masters, spineless bastards all.

The memories of revolution disappear as the wind shifts.
But a mighty, reckless, shameless, conscienceless, proud crime--it rumbles in distant thunder.
And do you not see how the sky grows presciently silent and dark?
Propaganda must be by deed, insurrection, assassination, bombing.
Resignation is death.
Revolt is life.
I will never willingly wear the chains of your sacred concepts, Natural Law, Common Humanity, Reason, Justice, The People.
There is no hope in conditioned morality.

The fire's light casts shadows across the faces of abandoned gods. Looming stone monoliths stand silently as a pantheon of superstition burns: emotional immolation. The thorned crown of self sacrifice, the horns and fur of immature rebellion, the false personification of nature--gives way to this passionate holocaust, to a reawakening of reason, to the triumph of the will. The stars' dull shine offers not approval nor any earthly feeling. It only illuminates our naked forms. Throw your frail bodies down. Throw your white bodies down. Throw your skinny bodies down. Throw your pale bodies down.

We're slaves to conditioning. Hidden eyes judge us from the heavens, unseen fingers choking free will back down our throats. You can never escape the foul presence of Christianity. And to ignore the divine contradictions, and to reject a fictitious morality, and to scorn superstitions, and to put your faith in logic--this is the path to your damnation. And you shall know them by the fruit they bear: intolerance, manipulation, genocide. All in the name of a god conjured in the imaginations and machinations of men. How dejected and unfulfilled. Look to me in hate, pity or indifference--but don't expect longing or acceptance in these eyes, or in these words--not for your pompous egotism, boisterous moral posturing, righteous indignation, or resignation to constant suffering. I would rather burn in hell than cling to man-made falsehoods. I would rather live in constant doubt and fear, expecting an unfeeling abyss than embrace false hope or extravagant fairy tales. There is no great shaper in the heavens. Nothingness awaits.

The death throes of daylight set the sky ablaze. Silent pyres are heaped with the bodies of the meek. A twilight inferno: prelude to utter blackness, the Erlking's only boon. In the shadow which offers no relief we explore the caverns of thought and pluck stars from the sky, striving. But armour wrought from rhetoric and axes blunt by willful ignorance offer no protection--only shackles and an early demise. Excise guilt. Abolish doubt. Is there no escape from Ahimsa's snare? Natures face be stained red by claw and tooth. But even rusty tools--misshapen and vile--have their uses. There can be no life for the weak.

Twenty-six years of self-imposed exile. Now I stagger from the desert, both eyes blind, without hands. But I still see. And I must act. Is there nothing left to do but dissolve my conscience? What good is sympathy, what good is approval, when everyday I put on this hood and cleave the guilty limb from limb? Guilty of what? Of being subordinates to a race of egotistical misanthropes. We breed them without limbs and then rip them from their mother's womb. We pack their bodies together as tight as we can, stand them amongst urine and feces. Inject them with chemicals, livestock hacked apart piece by piece until the eyes we spray with poison just barely make out their impending doom. But screams can't come from throats covered in cancer. And there is no willpower left in a heart we infected with AIDS. Our axes are sharp, but we still cut them slow. They must feel every agonizing second of pain. They must know who's in charge. Ignorance and sloth rule the land. But an army rises from the ashes of despair. You can see a forest of black banners on the horizon. Marching ever so closer. Marching.

What do you want me to say? What would you have me do? Must I rip out my own tongue and deafen these ears, stop an uncomfortable conversation before it starts? Must I tear out my own eyes, so I don't have to watch this constant self mutilation? Excuses. Lies. I swallowed them whole. Must I bite my lip so hard that a river of blood will choke back the criticism you're sure to hear in my voice? You cannot stop. I will not stop. Excuses and lies, I swallowed them whole. Oh, godless day with no sun to see that I've gone. And the night will not miss the breath from my lungs. It just moves on.