And there it was, the silence I had always subconsciously feared. Like a
thousand deaf men, singing the anthem of the inaudible.

The skies pass over, like the color of the most catastropic fire, as the
walls of the world crumbled down upon me. Gasping for some sort of air,
reaching for some form of help, only to be destroyed further and
further.

The sand blows over this rubble, no color to it, only desribed as
massacre.

The air is stale.

There is no sound, only the chorus. No screams, no death, no blood,
nothing. Just the orchestra and me.

My hands go raw from fighting this war. The blood runs thicker than the
water that we lack.

There is nothing left to fight for anymore. So why do we fight. Why am I
the only left? Why was I left to survive? I fought this war to find a
comfort I could not grant myself, the comfort found in eternity. Now
there is nobody left to grant me this passage to comfort.

This is my hell I presume, listening to this melodic brutality, that the
performer can not even understand.

And this is how I will die, alone, surrounded by the death and despair
caused by the hands of this army, this war, this battle I fought for.

My eyes are parched, yet they will not blink. Never will I miss a second
of this scene of annihilation.

Forget purpose, and reason. Forget heresy, and its bringers.

Forget the cowboy.

Forget the priest.

Forget the Knight.

Forget what was once a Kingdom.

Forget the religion.

Remember the faith.

Cry at the destruction.



Penned by my hand on the 7th of Tenebrae, in the year 527 AD.