I have vicious history and hands: See my fingers, how they shine with blood, the spillage of the penitent and damned, whose earnest wish it was to stay the flood. But God shan't tolerate the idiot no more than we may ascertain ourselves. In such instances, poignancy might just be best, and cutting words may very well retrieve from jurisdiction of the flame, and far beyond the very gates of Hell, those tortured Souls of negligence and shame who bear today the brunt of every self. I have in blatant blasphemy rejoiced and slain the gentle heart whom darkness dreads, such that in wisdom I have made a choice: the fragrances of fury and of death shall so be mine as to awaken God within my breast, to spring forth like a Song. I am forever waiting for this Call. I am thus petrified, and only wrong.