Life is a murder
Current mood: depressed
What good is the soul which dwells within my shell, what use has it served?
I feel not the love one should covet for thy own flesh and blood.
Returned unto me is nothing in comparison to the passion and effort I put forth unto my hearts desire.
The light of my heart grows dim, an empty cavern of decay remains where once was a home to many romantic hopes and dreams. Their corpses picked clean by the vultures spawned by the death of my marriage.
