I'm heading for the graveyard that lays ahead in white-cold silence and time has come for me to collect wages.
Peacefully I watch the picture for the power is on my side.
I smell the candles, I hear their feeble cracking as they keep burning amidst headstones conceived from insides of the dead.
I do close in, and reach out for their heat.
My nostrils frail as if I were a beat just when the sworming of those who've perished reaches my bare feet.
I rule as king over this wasteland, I'm torn apart by hunger and possesion.
Endless passing thoughts are haunting me and I am sad.
Too violent fleshlights caress my mind, the way that water soothes the thirsty lips of the condemned.
The grey-robed mourners are silenced now, and store at me as if they were awaiting some sign from high above.
