You don't know what it's like. This..cage. Beautiful smooth grills, pretty painted nothingness, sullied oxygen that lets you live only so it can watch you die.
You want to know what the greatest hoax in the history of mankind is? God? Close enough. Fucking Hope hanging herself from the streetlamps, skinning us alive, curling her claws around our dreams and giving us something to look forward to,
And then, Hope dances for us, doesn't she? Pretty Hope. All silk stockings and tutu skirts, ball gowns and football jerseys, tuxedos and leather, whatever turns you on,
Only to distract you from the cruelty of Life while he steals you of everything you have ever loved.
Partners in Crime.
They've leeched us of our life blood, only to do it again, and again. Till we look Hope in the eye and take Life into our own hands, Till she cries a lovers sorrow and he reeks of murder, Till we are left with blood staining our hands,
And we will never know whether it is ours or theirs.
Sometimes, we are dead with Hope and in Life long before Death strangles us with his cape.
They call it suicide. I blame those two, Partners in Crime.
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