The infernal chasm is open, black as a cancerous lung.
The cries from the depths are echoing around walls that cannot be scaled, reaching up from a carrion pit of perfect despair.
A vacuum of darkness envelopes the illuminated good, forever shrouding it it a blanket madness too pure to corrupt.
Fingers twitch at the thought of foul deeds, blood surges through veins throbbing with maniacal passion.
Synapses explode with devious intention.
I am terrible potential awaiting demonic inspiration.
What I did was glorious, a monument to chaos.
And like an artist with a muse I WILL KILL AGAIN.
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