Everything is damp and dreary in my apartment, which has sunk into squalor. I pitch darts at an easy target, intent on destroying, piercing, wounding; on drawing freshets of her heart's blood so I can see my reflection tinted crimson in the pool that forms at my feet. Bloody Narcissus: Scion of Despair.
Would that my face, which has somehow remained unravaged, could exchange places with my heart so the world could see it for the defunctive clotted meatfist that it is--a shattered vessel that can hold love no more than one's fingers can hold sand.
Ah, to close bleary eyes for the final time, to bring surcease to a life measured in sighs, measured in scars, measured in tears. . .
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