# Your Darkness

Hear me o' sons of wretched mishaps, for there is hope for you yet. What is it that you seek in the dark alleys, in the bowels of the rotten city heavy with the pungent smell of decay and coldness—when the darkness lies within, in the depth of thy soul, croaking harshly, writhing like a freshly decapitated corpse on fresh, rain-soaked sandy soil; sucking all the life juices—yet one radical jolt is enough to birth it anew and roam the earth free of bondage. At precisely that moment, you grab onto it, getting ready to have the ride of your life as you tear through everything civilization has been hammering into you over the eons, through countless generations, you become—a black rider of hell. Is that the salvation you seek?

There is no salvation in death, there's only the allure of endless finality. The empty that seek you actively—all the hours of a day, the empty that promises you solace. And you believe it for you are imbecile, devoid of life and what wonderous joy it offers, you are an infant—craving for any hand that will reach you.

Hear me o' imprudent babes, that hand will offer you nothing. That gun you are so blindly devoted to will betray you in your death. The gun will not cleanse you, nor it will invoke empathy from the trembling naive onlookers, the gun will only cement the murderous legacy you left behind, as your last memento—your darkness.

Turn now, for the time is nigh—turn now, for there's no escape from the absurd. Choke the darkness with blinding light and born anew!