Tears are the ink, and flesh is the paper in the dark, cold rain. A man dressed in a dark longcoat stands with the shadows and has seen this storm before; the rain is innocent blood washing over his face, shed by the guilty.. the thunder is a cry of agony when the voice can no longer scream words of pain.. and the lightning is flashbacks of dreadful moments frozen in time, forever. The man has a scar on his face, a dim street lamp brightens the concrete street just enough, as the nerves in his own arm become a feathered pen of a fallen angel. He writes because he has died inside yet find himself still breathing. These words come from a lonely void far beyond pain, sorrow, and loss. There is a saying about how the hand is no different from what it creates. And so it is with him.. this is his ritual, his love, his rage, and his darkness..

The man in the night is me.. and this is why I write. 

It is a place to put all the rage and anger I’ve felt at having loved ones torn away. It is an attempt to find order.. justice.. and reason where there is none. For certain things for there is no forgivness, absolutely none. That hard fact is impossible to learn to live with, because everything that can be done, has been done, and the only way that remains.. is my way. They must pay for destroying my world, my future, my hope.. 

Nobody will really understand what this all means until they have felt the despair of having nothing to lose and every reason to hate.. destroy.. kill.. and die. Nothing can prepare you for that moment. Not books, nor religion or healers.. for it will change a person at the core of his very soul. The past will fade away and a shadow of your former self shall be all that remains in this world, standing alone in the dark, cold rain. Who knows what the shade of darkness shall do before it becomes dawn, before a body no longer will twitch, before the blood has spilled away down the cruel drains of destiny??