Last night I dreamt that I was leading a mass of people around a building resembling a cross between my high school and a mansion. A man rounded a corner in front of us, attempting to stop me and asking to see '(my) army' (who I assume constituted the group behind me). He bowed to me for some reason, asking mercy if I recall, and when he was on his knees with his head to the floor before me, I took out a dagger and split his back open from coccyx to neck. The skin parted immaculately, and as he lay there quivering and whimpering softly, I called him pathetic and stepped in the wound, burying the heels of my boots in muscle and blood and leading the rest of my army forward over his broken form.
Your whimpers feed the flame
The scent of fear
And searing flesh
I will meet you with war.
The great thing about the internet is that no matter what, there will always be a congregation of people you will never meet clamoring to simultaneously worship you and one-up you for the title of most fucked up.
For it isn't the end that makes passion rise
And it isn't the during that raises the chalice of tears.