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Am I asending from grace now? It feels as though my body is not long from the grave being that my lips are too sore to speak and my eyes to heavy to sleep. Have you ever been to such a state where all speech seems lost on the tongue of an insomniac? Perhaps it is just me that sits here in my drunken wake, sullen for resting in my grave. But how foolish am I to flatter myself with tales of the living dead. Vampirism is nothing of the sort and all will see the end of the rope someday.



I can not even flatter myself to say that I am alone. I am festive and annoyed. The busy streets of social dead beats and lonely souls that worship their one false god. I am not speaking of the god that was preeched in those books with gold tinted words printed on thick or thin sheets, but the god that lives in every being. I am speaking of the man who can do no more then worship himself; And that is a false god.



But yet, I will hear the beating of my heart and the whispers in my ear that I can only predict is my sanity withering away. And I hear the screams at night through my thin barrier that doesn't do much good against the cold. I feel the iced grip of what could only be my own finger tips, grasping for life in the morning. And the beats of my heart grow softer and furth apart every moment passing in the day.



I am ill; I am sick and nobody can tell me why. So I've lost touch with rest because it won't be long til my final good-bye. Sleep seems a waste when death is on your door step, anticipatation grows dull and your body grows weary. A few weeks was I told, but it is in fact far from plenty. I will never grow old, despite how ready I am. I will always be cold becuase this is what I know to be. This is my life, or lack there of. I wish I could say more, but my words are few. I want the world to see what this disease really could be. Desporality, I am cancer, I am thread, I am Immortality.