Awake at night again. No tears to weep and too restles to sleep. Thinking of all and nothing and got stuck in between. Looking out through the window and see what I always see. 
It's all so silent here all around. 

I'm so provoked by the ever-consuming meaninglessness that I daily observe. I see dead people living their smiling satisfied lives. I must concentrate to keep my fists in control, but on the other hand imagine to be free from all these heavy, tearing thoughts. Being happy, brainless and liked instead of the opposite. 

Summer is not my friend. Satan, let it end. 
Sunshine, hurting my eyes. Making my skin look like...argh. 
Summer is a [bad word] plague. Releases whores and [bad word]  
Sunshine, making me sweat. Nothing more to me than a deadly threat. 

Furious Black Metal Anger fuels my veins with even more hate. Extreme Black Metal Hatred fills my muscles with even more strength. Yes, that sound of mediocrity. Yes, that half-hearted vocalists tired voice. Yes, those primitive lyrics that fits like a glove. There are greater reasons to dive into the deepest underground and the first demos by newer bands. There is a primitive vein that ghoes from my black speakers in my ears through the evil brain and down to my rotten, hungry satanic heart. I long for the winter - the real winter with the first snowfall that stays the whole winter season through. I long for deeply cold days and even colder nights. I hear in my mind the sound of snow under my boots. I see in my mind, the cold breath of mine to disappear in the wintry air. It's the first hour in August and the darkness slowly creeps and covers all - fills me [bad word]  

Rakbladsvalsens uncolours my dark night. Even the candle lights now seem blackwhite. My cat is resting in a chair and all is still but the war that has been going on since 1980 within me is so chaotic and messy and intense that I could kill and set houses aflame non-stop for 36 hours. 
As if the suffering and angst that I by then have caused might calm down the war between evil and evil in my brain. The walls in my apartment stand as christian body-building eprison guards that will effectively stop me from expressing me in other ways than using my pen, pencil and paper. Yes, it's [bad word]  that in my backpack I carry a gigantic feeling of unbelonging but still I have a life that has a worth. I'm not ready for my murders yet. I have some things to lose first. Time and destiny surely has me in their book. I miss my father and mother and sister and brother. Fifteen years ago we could talk, play or go out for a walk but now when we meet i'm holding the entire bibles of morbid and obscene ideas inside and to talk and act properly then is impossible. 

I see that you notice that i'm now who I used to be. 
It was triumphant yet frightening for me to realize that I had given myself to father Satan and to tell you that it was done is not possible.