All about me are the corpses of a world that lacks colour. Those whom visit so often tattered with the curl of rigor mortis wracking there spines. Why do people allow themselves to live such extended lives to the point that the decaying process sets in before their final nights? I will never know.
Death is so abundant these begotten days of summer. Summer, the days of life and living on which so many find there untimely demise. My closest of friends gone now to the river styx to bid their wager at the long-boat's toll. Decrepped corpse, who you dwindle in my mind is beyond even the wisest of gods.
To each their own, to me, nothing. Eaters of flesh to cuddle within the safety of mine own bed. I whisper unto you, goodnight, sweet magot, sweet beetle. Goodnight.