Hollow, he mechanically performs each minute of his existence, marking time from one task to the next. Watching, he thinks in dark rhythms of wordless angst, gnawing like hunger from a body he still doesn't claim. Jumbled, scarce words enter the achingly silent void, just enough to halt further penetration into the world that no one else sees.

First-person point of view, scanning and scoping. Never feeling. Antagonists, hedonists, targets, then victims, always failing to recognize their ultimate folly. Outside and justified, he steadies the gaze, he chooses—and firms the resolve. Tomorrow, things change.


Blank, he trains the hunger, starved by choice and tragically remote, focusing but not living. Dark desire fills the cavity, eroded behind the wall he did not build…short-circuited by chance, suffered by fate, conquered by choice…


Self-hatred poised for a final performance…an invitation to the world. See him fear him this is the moment, today he's real.


Short is the exit, long is the sentence…by Grace we are touched, by design we are changed. By choice, he is erased.