"Let me feel the guilt of killing someone - of killing the child in you."

Ah, a lost soul, I see. What brought you to this graveyard, my dear ancient ghost? Are you one of the others - here to find forgotten feelings written on mossy tombs? Or are you just lost enough to come here and be this graveyard's permanent resident?

          Whatever it is, lost one, I welcome you!
          
          I have written and hidden puzzled figures and shattered symbols of anguish between dreadfully creative lines, and have kept them within closed caskets buried six feet under. I, Simon Pablo - the murderer of the secrecies of the ever-so-blinding light; the phantom of the dead metaphors; the dried blood that all the ancient scriveners have bled - am here to guide you to dig and decipher them all.

          Please be warned of the imperfect glory and the explicit wonders of my world . . . and everything in between.

          Here lies Simon Pablo and his dead soul scripting a paradox of a hopeful and hopeless future.

          And though he seems dead . . .

                . . . he shall bleed.