Sleep in wanton apathy. I'll find my own way home.

The convention of the layman has no paranoid hold over me. I am spirals and odd angles and feel no need to apologize. I might be in this agony, but without all this tar, what would hold my wings together?

I have a right to scream.

Sipping glasses spill my blood and I prefer it.

This is our regrets given form, not a shadow, but smoke, because no regret exists. In that darkness reserved for such things, there is a void. A void where I take my leave in its place, and I am satisfyed.

I ABASE!

Destroy Once Done