The other night I dreamt that I had received a letter from a dead man. It spoke of ancient fables, and disappearing myths. It offered a warning as well, hidden there amongst his curious script. It told of a coming tide of shadow, so expansive that it would drown out the Sun. Now I know the dead don’t talk, and am completely aware this was all a dream, however, a mind is a terrible thing to waste. I saw a generation diminish in despair. So many got tangled in the webs, they themselves had helped to spin. I felt the crushing weight, have been scarred by the molten heat. I have bathed in darkness, have danced with the devil, but I have begun to notice the devil has not changed, while I have. Compromise, one more cut, one more scar for the bloodletting. The dead man’s letter suggests stasis, so go ahead and try, but you can never change this.
Give Him Pills