Our Hell is a good life.

With wet eyes and stained cheeks, she asks: "Why have you forsaken me?"

These are Rohypnol dreams and aspirations. While all their eyes are cloaked in blackness, I am the newly adopted idea of Christ. I turn their blood, and my own, to ink. Then I fulfill the thirst of the seas. I ravage gentle coasts with coarse chagrin. I leave the suspicious shrouded and awash to decorate the shores to better suit my approval. The skeptics and rejectors are left submerged to swallow every last swell of our love. Finally, I rest; comfortably perched upon a throne built atop the remains of your dead relatives with my finger pointed and fixated on the world. You see, it's an insatiable thirst for which there's no functional escape routine and it's cyclic process is as inevitable as death itself. Kneel and gratify me for gutting your elders. Clasp your hands and ask me questions as if I'm listening. At last the world is fully blackened. No cold, rapid streams of conscious thought strong enough to rival the acceptance of Truth. Place your hand against the Book, against my turned back adorned with the hand prints of those reaching out to me as I've turned away and tuck your children in bed at night with my promises of intolerance and justice. Wash your hands and clench your eyes closed. I promise that I will deliver you from this world of disgusting variance. The rising seas of ink will once again fill our veins. I love you.