The clock's hands fold, I feel pulsing in my chest all the agony of one more day, in this world of darkness.

Through my nostrils runs the smell of my own death printed on the grey Sunday sky.

I kill myself, take my life...

In my last mourning I realize, I've always been the nothing I feared becoming...

Desolate, I just watch the trail in which I walked to get here...
All in vain, no reward to make me lift up my head.

Bitter was my defeat, I see the sky covered with the grey smoke that my eyes were never able to stand.

In the decaying reality, I am just a crawling worm in a world of lies.

I contemplate the decaying force of the forged nature, that I have been forced to admire.
None of this is more special then a bitter draft at sunrise.

I am just flesh attached to bones that serve no other purpose, other than rotting.
The beauty of everything that has ever yearned to be beautiful is just makeup on existentialist dross.

I am the bitter taste of gall that circulates in the veins of those who still consider the eternal penitence a godly gift.

All your idols are dead, they died in vain, what for?

...Life?