Death,
I tell you,
It never gets easier. To watch the blood blossom like a flower, staining countless eras of hard work to the beat of a dying heart. Upon these macabre works of art I watch eternity..
They say dying lasts an eternity, and I watch it through the eyes of those I slaughter. Blame ignites in their eyes as their last passion and I alone am the one to shoulder their final burdens. A brick on my shoulder, adding another weight to the satchel of bricks I carry. Each weight is a weight that will one day drown me and I know this. When I die, who will I have to blame but the ones who blamed me?
In bringing death I bring my own end. There is only so much end you can toll before insanity washes over even the highest of walls.
These particular thoughts occurs to me as a man I do not know glares at me with the hatred that should have been born from a millennial of fowl encounters. Instead, we had only met half a minute ago, when the blade met his flesh. His blood pools and balloons out on an Oriental rug that looks expensive and tasteful. He dies on riches and lavish decorations that few know to exist and, when the body collectors come to take his vessel from this place, the rug will bear his mark forever. I don't know whether this is a tragedy or something beautiful.
The man in question is Japanese. It's almost 2 in the morning yet he wears a business suit as if its just as much a part of him as it is a part of his job attire. In retrospect I can attest to that. When a job becomes a career, and a career a lifestyle, you feel the most you in the clothes that attest to it. I myself only feel one hundred percent comfortable and one hundred percent safe in my disguises. Even if my disguise is something I'd wear around the house, there is a psychological difference between the two that ignites safety and comfort in my muscles.
I tell you,
It never gets easier. To watch the blood blossom like a flower, staining countless eras of hard work to the beat of a dying heart. Upon these macabre works of art I watch eternity..
They say dying lasts an eternity, and I watch it through the eyes of those I slaughter. Blame ignites in their eyes as their last passion and I alone am the one to shoulder their final burdens. A brick on my shoulder, adding another weight to the satchel of bricks I carry. Each weight is a weight that will one day drown me and I know this. When I die, who will I have to blame but the ones who blamed me?
In bringing death I bring my own end. There is only so much end you can toll before insanity washes over even the highest of walls.
These particular thoughts occurs to me as a man I do not know glares at me with the hatred that should have been born from a millennial of fowl encounters. Instead, we had only met half a minute ago, when the blade met his flesh. His blood pools and balloons out on an Oriental rug that looks expensive and tasteful. He dies on riches and lavish decorations that few know to exist and, when the body collectors come to take his vessel from this place, the rug will bear his mark forever. I don't know whether this is a tragedy or something beautiful.
The man in question is Japanese. It's almost 2 in the morning yet he wears a business suit as if its just as much a part of him as it is a part of his job attire. In retrospect I can attest to that. When a job becomes a career, and a career a lifestyle, you feel the most you in the clothes that attest to it. I myself only feel one hundred percent comfortable and one hundred percent safe in my disguises. Even if my disguise is something I'd wear around the house, there is a psychological difference between the two that ignites safety and comfort in my muscles.
