I am made of dreams and nightmares. Of fire and earth.

Flaming mirages of good life, that is so close yet still unreachable, like forbidden fruit; juice dripping on my skin, staining it with red and yellow, with sun and stars, but never reaching my mouth. A torture of being one step from the fulfillment, a personal Tartarus of punishment without guilt.

I am becoming Hades himself, shaping my torment into strength; I am a king of my own pain, a god of Styx, which flows through my veins long enough to change my heart into a bone muscle, pumping ink, feeding on my own suffering.

I am stronger with my shadow. It eats my fear, and replaces it with anger.

Which kills my enemies with burning flame, buries it alive in the black soil. My nightmares scream, my prey writhes in the net made of crimson rage and blood thorns.

I won’t go in peace, I will fight with talons and teeth. To reach the forbidden fruit, to the sound of fate’s laughter turning into delicious silence of death.