Death in the air, repeated harvest, and ****** is the only the viable volunteer.
Our spirits inherit this deep freeze, to migrate to a better year.
It is of our nature to **** what we tend to and care for.
We are all told this cycle is progress, and to ignore this horrid gore.
One soul must be reborn thousands of times to achieve satisfaction.
Seedlings of grass are no longer visible, even a thousand mile walk cannot find human interaction.
The one and only way to find the light is to burn a thousand souls.
I now find myself lusting, out of control; tormenting weakness now my only goal.

Let the snowfall begin.