Monday, October 12, 2015
The cocktail is a battlefield with victory measured in hard-fought disfigurement, compromised torture, and milligrams of lost hope. My enemies, camp followers, and fallen pill bottles all look the same from here. I don't want out; that would be too easy and pointlessly cruel. I want through. I will burn fields of sanity and sow my skin with Roman salt in pursuit of victory. When the fog of war slips through momentary peace, I can only write about love I barely understand. My hands are bloody, and my stomach is sore in ways only those familiar with the battlefield strewn with shattered weapons and moments I will never know again may understand. The best of all outcomes is a stalemate; a draw between pain so the order of battle falls at the same rate. I mourn for our Legions, but they cannot mourn for me. I am the evil genius of my nightmares, and I will have what I need, no matter how horribly I come across it.