I Invited Myself. Thought This Table Needed

War." Gorgon Spits The Word. "that Is What They Call It To Give The Illusion Of Honor And Law. It Is Chaos. Madness And Blood And The Hunger To Win. It Has Always Been Thus And Shall Always Be So.

It's As If I've Inherited A Skin I Cannot Quite Fit, And So I Walk About Constantly Pulling And And Tugging, Pinning And Pruning, Trying Desperately To Fill It Out, Hoping That No One Will Look At Me Struggling And Say, 'that One There- She's A Fraud, Look How She Doesn't Fit At All.

My Misery Is Reaching Epidemic Proportions.

A Gentle Breeze Catches In The Branches Then And I Hear It, Soft And Low, A Murmured Prayer--gem-ma, Gem-ma--and Then The Leaves Bend Down And Trail Delicate Fingers Across My Cold Cheeks.

You Are Working Up To Mr. Fantastic Fiction Levels Of Zombie Expert, Which Is Like Playing Guitar Hero On Some Level That Actually Melts The Guitar Controller, Burning Your Fingers With Searing Hot Plastic Till You Scream In Pain. Only With Words. And Zombies.