Isn’t it good to be acquainted with darkness
To caress it gently, to slit its throat
To know the hidden pockets, caves and grottos of the mirrored landscape
To catch a glimpse of black majesty
To know there’s more horror to this existence than anyone could ever know
Standing in the shadow of our own?

Isn’t it beautiful
To know exquisite remorse
To see the truth that drives men fleeing into early graves
To be wise, to dream every day of a great escape, of a Houdini blade?

We love the taste of false perfection – the more the lies, the more we laud

Isn’t it beautiful to live and die alone, to carve a path out of unyielding stone between the crushing narrow divide of the war of two tribes steeped in a hate so narrow and deep it leaves two inches of earth on either side to save you from the final breath-taking fall into a deep hush – a silence so profound that your ears run and melt with the deafening sound?