An inner wound from which my sickness spews outwards and
inwards. The touch of outer air infects and corrupts. Every
name I have chosen for myself brings with it its own
malignant sickness and rewards.

A work written to expose demons and sunlight, exhumes a
horror stricken corpse, presently living for what seems an
Ion and yet, only a few years have passed.

The glancing into the personal abyss, processing redemption
fills nothing and I remain empty inside. Is this the End or
just the end of another note. I am a Void just seeking to be
Filled.

I am the sewers and the rivers and nothing is presently
alive.

All the answers - redemption looking from the barrel of a
gun.