Whispers are truths, twisted into our fears and forming knots beneath our boiling blood. Those words of passion, seduced out of hiding and trusted only by the extremely gullible, reside in the very pits of our soul, a never-ending drive to immerge from this depression and be a survivor. Dead languages and hidden feelings, crawling over our skin and giving us goose bumps in the dead of night. Lost lives and selfish herds of sheep, all of them craving the attention of their masters in the wake of society. Doomed to inevitable death, no chance of immortality, you will grasp that last hand hold called 'hope' and pray to God that you will still be sane in the end. Feel the cold metal drawing blood from your back, and all you can do is sit and wait for the curtain to close and the caskets to be shut. Issues of the world hang limp on your naked shoulders, and you have but a few words to aid those who are helpless. Close the windows, lock the doors, and when dawn comes you'll be able to breathe again. Hide the pain, mask the suffering, and incorporate all your hatred into one physical being:

YOURSELF.