shrieking, shaking from the tears that pour down my begrimed features, as the malignant expressions course through my capillaries. the only contrivance to lull the caterwaul of these miscreations in my subconscious is the lure of a canvas. but, the deception of these beings is that the canvas is my anatomy & the painting utensil is my self murder.
-it's 3 am & I can't see anything but crimson gore & the sound of vodka flasks fracturing one another.
r.r
