Will my misery entertain?
Will he salivate at the prospects and their resulting effects?
Joy, he wouldn't contain.

"Oh girl, the things I could do." He did almost coo.
"I want you to remember this encounter long after I'm through."

"With fire, you chose to play. Such a childish fool, one only gets burnt that way."

Why does my creativity choose to bloom?
Why does it grow as I contemplate delving into the darkness, pitching my tent in the blackness, amongst all of the doom and gloom?
Will my soul be efficiently sort out and collected for The Man In Red to consume?