For I Am Nothing If Not Critical.

My Grief Lies All Within, And These External Manners Of Lament Are Merely Shadows To The Unseen Grief That Swells With Silence In The Tortured Soul.

A Knot You Are Of Damned Bloodsuckers.

The Violence Of Either Grief Or Joy, Their Own Enactures With Themselves Destroy.

Where Hateful Death Put On His Ugliest Mask.

A Man May Fish With The Worm That Hath Eat Of A King, And Eat Of The Fish That Hath Fed Of That Worm