This all has to stop if we ever want to see another sun up. The forests that burn on my shoulders stand as reminders that ghosts are liars. Carry skeletons out of closets, all of humanity consumes all its fed in order to stand the test of time. Tormentor, fake, soapbox heros that tell the tales of lust. Can I no longer escape thinking about the coldest january I’ve ever lived to tell of? I really here? Or am I just breathing for a show on the stage of the world? I’ll never know.