I'm sick. Not ill like I want to hurl, but wrong. Demented.

I can feel those burning hands on me when I dream. I can't help. My savior is my drug, the only thing I need. I can't help it...

Angels are bright. Brighter than the stars. Beacons for all wasting away in the blue flames. My savior was not bright. I hear his voice a lot. When I sleep. When I'm awake. My savior is everywhere. And he is nowhere ( Read more... )

I think about death a lot... Ya know. I mean I guess everyone does, but just not as much as me. Maybe it's because I was thrown in hell for centuries. Up here, among the living, it was only an hour. But down there.... down there, there was no time. It was like seven hundred years of endless torture in a room of blue flames. Torn to pieces in more ( Read more... )