It’s like a dead end you’ve come to. A wall, with the fingerprints of the dead, with the screams still etched on each brick. And you touch the fissures, wishing you could feel it, wishing you could rub against the hot, hot surface. Wishing you could be caressed by each anguished cry…and you feel it, you feel it inside your mouth. When you want it so deep, so inside yourself, so absolutely into your soul, you feel like nothing will let you go. And you reach toward it, reach to touch it and to wrench every desire out of it, until nothing else is dripping but her filthy blood, a white spread on a vermilion tablecloth. And you touch, and you suck it in, and you taste it within the farthest reaches of your mind, and you think, you cannot think, you cannot form a coherent thought so as to wonder what is happening to you. This taste, this strength, this hate, this deep, deep hatred that is taking over everything in your body. You’ve yearned for it, you’ve wanted it, and now, now when you have it, you feel like running from it, but you do not for your feet just walk towards it, and your soul is carved into it and you stay. You stay and you bleed and you feel what it can, and only it can, give to you. And you revel in it. You absolutely bask in it, in what it makes you feel, in the different types of hatred it shows you, in all the ways it breaks you over and over again. And you cannot stop anything with it anymore, you cannot stop it, you do not want to stop it, and it will not stop; it will only take over, delve into you so deep, so utterly within you, that it merges, and you merge with it, and it becomes one inside of you and you become nothing inside of it..