The correspondent

If there was a God there'd be the devil waiting, waiting, waiting. Waiting for you to succumb, like everyone else that insisted they were brave and righteous.

But you sin and you cleansed and you sin and you cleansed but you never really were never really clean in the first place.

There is nothing but darkness and despondence in the abyss of your being but you tell yourself that you are kind and gentle and a decent human.

But the lamb is either a wolf or dinner, and I'd rather be the wolf.

Like a lunatic that howls at the full moon and runs through the woods with branches tearing and scraping and scratching at you.

Drip, goes your blood.

And then it becomes rivulets.

And then it flows.

And then it gushes.

And at the end, it drips again, until all is silent.