It Is Hungry, It It Immortal. Worse,

The Thread Has Snapped. No Sound Even To Mark The Breaking Let Alone The Fall. That Long Anticipated Disintegration, When The Darkest Angel Of All, The Horror Beyond All Horrors, Sits At Last Upon My Chest, Permanently Enfolding Me In Its Great Covering Wings, Black As Ink, Veined In Bees' Purple. A Creature Without A Voice. A Voice Without A Name. As Immortal As My Life. Come Here At Long Last To Summon The Wind.

And Where There Is No Echo There Is No Description Of Space Or Love. There Is Only Silence.

Youth Always Tries To Fill The Void, An Old Man Learns To Live With It.

Because The Enormous Narcissism Of Their Parents Deprived Will And Tom Of Suitable Role Models, Both Brothers Learned To Identify With Absence. Consequently, Even If Something Beneficial Fortuitously Entered Their Lives They Immediately Treated It As Temporary. By The Time They Were Teenagers They Were Already Accustomed To A Discontinuous Lifestyle Marked By Constant Threats Of Abandonment And The Lack Of Any Emotional Stability. Unfortunately, "accustomed To" Here Is Really Synonymous With "damaged By.

It Is Hungry, It It Immortal. Worse, It Knows Nothing Of Whim.