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Let them have it; it's theirs

 Beauty goes out of the world and it's only the beating of flesh that fills the air. It's only the moaning of some whore made good by the bank balance of a richer man. Let them bang on at it. Let the flesh smells rot the air. As for this withering part of the tree, As for me:  I will enjoy the last rays of the sun.  People are such a disappointment.
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Calmed a few, Killed a few...

In the provinces of the mind, we don't always know who lives there. That is the message of our race. We do not know what is rooted in our nature. Who is here to guide us? Usually our lusts and our excesses. Usually our fears, but not only. The answers are deep and hard to uncover. 



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