It sometimes feels as if my mind is nothing but a large Victorian home, on a humidly damp summer day. A permeating stench wafts across the air, assaulting the senses. Droll little cracks and imperfections of manufacture are evident, but as a whole... they're sturdy, even after so much time and wear. It's not perfect, and it's certainly not nice... but this bad place, horrible place, a place I'd never ever want to be, it's me.

My confusion, my rage... the route all my actions travel along, is the sum of my memories. Vivid recollections that invade my personal space, creeping up behind and jabbing me in the back with the force of a freight train. They shake you awake at night, in a chilly sheen. Too many people dismiss the effects of acclimating yourself to danger and believe me, in my line of work, there's danger.

Beyond all the obvious, there's something that snaps inside of you, when you're forced to thrill and shill. To bring about all the excitement of a person, and then let that brief euphoria dwindle and shrivel up into dissapointment. I have many names, from many people, with the same meaning. To most though, I am merely... sick. A depraved, emotional and pitiful human monster. Selfishly absorbed inside of his own meager pains to the point where he can't think clearly enough and charitably enough.

This is a seriously grievious error on the part of my peers. Often, I'll glance at someone and try to pick apart their lives, without gleaning anything from their clothing. I steal a look at their eyes, at the way they walk... it's psychological, but it's there. I study mostly faces though, because they tell more then anyone will ever understand. A default face, is the worst. To be blank, to not exhibit any kind of emotion, perturbs me. It's nails on a cheekboard, it's atrocious, it's... unbearable.

It never works though. The cliche, as they often are, applies. People are not their looks, they're not their cars, or their wallets, or their Gucci sandals. They do give it all away though, to me. Can't tell a book by it's cover, yet people often walk around with their stories open, for any random stranger to read. It's always, right there...

If you have a blank face, you're tired, and you want people to know it. Exuberant, Cheery, Crestfallen, Ashen... these aren't normal automatic settings of your face, it's concious. We do it becase... we... are... lonely.

Solitary creatures; we are not.

We are however cyclical, drawing what we do and want from those we know. It's what keeps ouir race intact, but it's a way of thinking, which relies heavily upon the abstract and anomalic to share the burden of progression. Society's outgrowing our ability to free-think, without remorse.

A man tells a woman she's fat. The cycle starts. The woman tells a friend, that she's going on a diet. The cycle gows. The friend of the woman, tells her hairdresser that her friend's going on a wonderful new diet. The cycle grows. The hairdresser tells her husband's sister-in-law at a family together, over roughly textured spaghetti peppered by flaky sauce, about that woman's friend. The cycle grows. The husband, entirely bored by the scenario, remarks in a joking manner to his workmate that his wife is insane and women are vain. The cycle grows. The co-worker tells his wife the joke, she gets offended, and he indirectly tells her she's fat. The Cycle grows.

She starts the diet three days later.

The cycle ends.

People are people and people need to be loved. So, as sophormoic childrenn of the universe, they'll do that, dress this, fuck that, suck there, in order to be appreciated. Because we're lonely beings, and creature

s of habit.

I find no need to hide what is glaringly obvious. I'm lonely... my children are dead. My wife left me.

But I'm still standing. Here, now.. stronger. That's one of the good things, about hardship. It forges a fire. And in me, those flames never were quelled. They've been calmed, they've been hidden, but never extinguished. It's a fire, that connects humanity. The heavily-driven have this fire. They're Kings, they're Presidents, they're Heroes. Then you've got the ones whose memories never fade. Those are Poets, those are Criminals, those are Villains.

A man like me is a villain. A man like, say... Steve Jason, he's a Hero. He's a wonderful, great... powerful, confident hero. Defeats all enemies, kills all foes. And he himself, can not be 'killed.'

However, soon... the unkillables, those great men... those heroes, will fall. Because one of us need to. Life is nothing without the yin or the yang, the bitter and sweet.

And, well... life for some, has just gotten a little too sweet.

It's time for me to no longer silently suffer. Power called me once, and I came as a young cub wanting the ability to change the world. In the end, the world has changed me. Far too much then I'd have liked, but it's made me almost strong enough.

Yet now, something has called me again. It's the elegy of good. It's the death song. The melody that strides side-by-side with destruction.

It's The Black Order.

In another lifetime, I suppose the mystical and magickal entities I've encountered, and the unknown that presents itself to me, might stupidy. But now, in this... moment, I feel an odd kinship to the supernatural.

So, I answered the siren song. I began gaining power, at first by being nominated to represent Team CWF in the 05-05-05. Secondly, by becoming the GENERAL MANAGER of CWF. Then, I was given power freely. A seer, a man known as Melkiah, a man I've encountered through our mutual friend Raziel, pointed me in the direction I needed to be and now am.