Ren-Takada

In Hell, it is never truly dark; perversions, delusions, and disruptive excitations accompany the cacophony of magma and brimstone. The only true darkness lies inside of the poor souls trapped there for eternity; a never-ending tsunami of self-doubt and ignorance awashes them. I look up at the amber night sky and wonder where in the cloud of light pollution shines the light from yon window, slumped back in a poorly lit city bus with its cantankerous, wild-mane driver. Barreling down the blinding freeway, yet another sign for flesh-sin ruins my view. Walking off the bus and down the same streets, I remember why this is so simple. Night after

I keep trying to concoct the greatest potion of neurotransmitters and prose in order to get myself to love you. The task has not been easy, nor has it been kind to the state of laboratory; nothing quite stains a rug like a spilled vial of dopamine. By no means is it complete, and perhaps it never will be for it seems nothing but a lack of melatonin can properly magnify the small amount of pleasure it generates. Oh to want to be seen in your embrace is all I strive for now, searching quickly for that key element that escaped me long ago. I can make no promises of payoff or of affection for your years of dedication, but at the very least it has

Shotgun Shells Extra, Extra! Emotional hypocrisy runs rampant in small suburban kingdom. She says she's still divinely sane, or so she claims to the press. He doesn't deny a word, claiming truth a virtue, but adds that he had known better than to tell her; she's much too rage motivate, and he wishes not the slightest harm to the girl involved. 'The girl! The girl can taste my sole. Hopefully' she rages to the small, mousey reporter; the rage dwindles 'maybe…'; the rage dies 'I deserved this…' "A continual cycle," the warden states to the press. Psychosomatic pussy cat; she's on the prowl. He's not on the run; he's got a shotgun l