I slit the throat of my youth today, but the blood didn’t devour any despair. I kept eerily calm, though. I tried to immerse my self in the choking, and I chased at all forms that tried to flee away from my innocent consciousness. All I could catch was a callous perspective. A perspective shaped like a twisting dagger, yet its edge was blunt and much too pristine to garner any real respect. I ached to use it already, on everyone and every damned thing. I felt a hotness covering my exposed chest, and my shallow, gurgled breaths caught a rhythm that I’m sure the dead demons would have enjoyed dancing to.
How could I sharpen this dagger if I was already blood deep in debt, dead?