Rage, like rust, never sleeps. What is rage but love pilloried and mocked? And who are this love's accusers but those for whom love merely bites its own coin, whose luster is its very falseness?
My rage places me beyond all hope -- but also beyond all fear. There is something quite soothing about not being able to feel as one used to. It will serve me when I stand before the grainy tide of mindless time and, unlike my recreant oppressors, who will quiver before the inevitability of their own annihilation, which could never have come too soon, will nod my assent: truly fitting, this moment where rage and rust converge in the eager maw of oblivion. Nothing to record the anguish, the constant bleed of sorrow. No traces, no stains. Just mist in summer's morning light.
Rust is the sleep that isn't; death is the sleep that is.
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