SEE YOU IN HELL, PUNK

”Love looks

not with the

eyes, but with

the mind, and

therefore is

winged cupid

painted blind.”

-Shakespeare

“I agree with Ralph! We've got to have rules and obey them. After all, we're not savages. We're English! And the English are best at everything!”

A poem from my ao3.

Lovely voices of everyday life extend beyond their recognition.

May our voices reach their fullest potential, for only ourselves know the truth behind every word we speak.

With every glare, comes a price.

Brewing madness sets apart from the rest.

Tearing apart the fragile seams of civility.

Nihilistic juxtapositions between man’s souls and demeanor speak deeply to those with whom they claim they have seen enough.

Apathy runs rampant among individuals of all backgrounds, including those whose sense of self has rooted deep within themselves until it has become nothing more than a tarnished, bitter reality.

March’s spring weather proves unkind this year when the defiled floors have been swept with the wrath of the no longer existing civility of one individual.

An individual who stands in unison with another has made their decision to stand tall and riot against those that they consider less than they are.

To most, this individual is nothing more than an entity of hatred.

But often not, most overlook the journey of such hatred.

Behind those oak colored eyes that bore with hatred, there once was happiness behind them.

Once filled with laughter’s light now darkened by shadows of betrayal.

A child of joy, forged by a world of indifference.

In the ruins of swept civility, hatred blooms where hope once grew.

Now what remains is the faint metallic fiddle of his gun and the occasional swaying of his dark clothes, a shadow moving through silence.

His name will become synonymous with tragedy once the deed is done.

The consequences will be quick enough to make him suffer. 

Hatred knows no patience, and the pact binds tighter than doubt.

Bound by a silent oath, forged in the ashes of what they once believed in, with a steady breath, he lifts the trembling gun, yet the tremor in his arm makes it almost impossible to properly hold the cold gun.

So, he aims at his accomplice first, as they both had planned, letting his fingers take away.

The sound of the harsh collapse disperses throughout the scene, the silence deepens, only his shadow remains.

The cold barrel touches his temple, closing his eyes, the final blow reveals itself whole, a promise of oblivion.

As both blood puddles mix together, penetrating itself into the floor accumulating with a grand, singular red stain, it is as if their lives and their fates were never truly separate, only slowly being woven into a singular tapestry of ruin.

You know, having a lunar eclipse (also commonly called a blood moon) the day before the Ides of March feels a bit like a… omen. Wouldn’t you say?

Rasputin

I remember a tale, Far to the east, In the cold empire, A plan was produced,

« Ralph pleurait la fin de l’innocence, les ténèbres du cœur de l’homme et la chute dans les airs d’un véritable et sage ami appelé Piggy. »

-William Golding, Le Seigneur des mouches.

owch

“How long have you been holding those words in your head, hoping to use them?”

— John Locke

Piggy and Snowball interacting as requested by Zizzy

“Live your life as though your every act were to become a universal law.”

— Immanuel Kant