Desks

He walked the Earth with ambivalent stride, his name glowing and scowling in the pride and sorrow that could only come with having sudden meaning and recognition in the seemingly relentless world that surrounded him. Although unseeingly so, he never forgot the place of his birth, the City of Self-Pity, or the poor, grotesque, and dirty hands that unduly fed him as a child. He never forgot how to desire something with such intensity that the world around him shook in utter perdition. He lived in desire but was unable to escape the realistic terrors and incredible fantasies from within and from without.
He also walked other worlds in loathing, loud footsteps. Every part of his body burned and scorched the ground in hatred. Every step was another further to his own personal annihilation. Metaphorically, of course, for he could never escape the ties that bound him to the Underworld and Tartarus. He could never unhear the sound of his booming voice laughing among the shrill screams of the unworthy. He could never unsee the brutal torture that he himself ordered as punishment. Like death himself, he was remorseless, but unlike death and contrary to common belief, he wasn't completely heartless.
Although everything he was to do was thoroughly planned and carved into a path, he was unaware that the world is unscripted and things can be easily misunderstood, for the present is already gone, and a man has left from where he once stood.