A letter written home on stationary, the address marked with the author's
blood. i know his leaving was never premeditated, but eighteen years on
auto-pilot...will drive someone's impulse. decapitated dolls. arson on action
figures. so told, not acceptable acts. they figured if hope was twisted
within a straitjacket, it would be the perfect solution to prevent so called
mishaps. the worls seemed so colorless. white walls masquerade the surface of
punishment (and rehabilitation) i can't grip the burden of shadows. i hope
you die! the corners of blended pasts, uninformed to their futures. the final
solution is to let me deal. let's see you grip the burden of shadows. let's
see you grip the burden of shadows. the burden of shadows.