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Strangled in a vice grip.
Lash out.
This is the place where sadness breeds, the desolation in everyone.
This is a wasteland full of nameless, faceless, soulless mounds of flesh,
mewling, writhing in and out of existence.
Long for communion.
Nothing.
The wailing moans, the gnashing of teeth.
The deafening, endless, complete isolation.
Long for an end, a day of reckoning.
Into my bones, let it descend.
The holy stones lay scattered at the head of every street.
Urban scars wiped clean.

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