Memories chase after him like a murderer's glove, bruised and bloodied. Fugitive thoughts are nighttime shadows springing from an abnormal mind, the wrong shade of red. Scarcely remembered are the others, like a child standing with its face pressed, distorted against glass.
Darkness closes in as a ravenous crow, sadistic urges a devouring flesh. Emotionless eyes laugh coldly, "Either way they die." Driving down the long highway, he hunts for prey like the hawks he holds in high esteem, bleeding offerings to the broken moonlight, nothing less than the blatant face of death embracing itself.