That whom need not be named.

He held a mirror to the subconscious, peering into the corners of the absent, into the places we'd rather not know existed. He guides us through the valley of horror's that we've tattooed ourselves in. Pulling the petals from the wounds, into truths we've swindled ourselves out of knowing. The wrinkles on their faces whisper of haunting memories and still we stare. He was my will, a visionary, compromising nothing to vest his self crypticly in each mark he left.

The cresent moon hummed a death note from each to the next. A thematic abortion of normality gloomed around a grining smile. The mystery that clouds our preception is magnifyed, though confused, we see it for what it is.

Gnarled limbs portrude from a sheathing garment, hooded in shadow. An apocalyptic aura gnaws our afermation in what we belive to be. We are doused in the vision of windowless towers that erect from the neglect of our desires. Only in the examination he has brought to us do we see through the haze, into the hollow caverns of our exsistance.