It lurks within the dark recesses of our primal unconciones, So much ink has spilled down the centuries, We are the beast to thee, Yet heroes at times of war...
I am constantly amazed by the regularity with which we stumble across truths and halh truths, Sometimes vary profound ones...
A yearning made flesh, an externalization of a guilt lust complex and many other things besides...
For mine is a world in witch human life no longer holds meaning, A world in witch a man must rapacious devor ones own self in order to survive...
In a attempt to penetrate an atmosphere of foreboding that has hung over ones head for many moons, I write...
Of all that is written, I love only that witch has been written with ones own blood, To write with ones own blood and you wil experience that blood is spirit, And that spirit is passion...
Because the human emotion secondary only to the human himself, Is the most visious and rigorous of killers...
