Meat locker.
Cold. Cold. Lost remains of humans hanging from the ceiling. Crude depictions of slaughter, written in the elegant ink that is fresh blood, lie smoking on the icy floor like graffiti on the side of a train car. Gray figures wander the void. Red eyes, no features to speak of, stark gray nightmares. They stand in motionless in perfect silence, waiting for my movement. I must hold still, yet their very being compels me to charge in for war as a martyr without cause. There is no logic behind the pure hatred towards or from those abominations, as if we exist to counteract each other. Spite flows through my veins, poisoning my blood. Can't be a pacifist, sick. It's making me sick. I move, I die. I stay, I die with a heavy heart.
Sorry, can't keep this one up any further. Good song...etc.
Rating: 5 (+ 0.0067)