The Truth.

The mentally unwell keep suffocating the laws to keep its despicable nose clean so it releases a Man in drag, yet when I died, they put me in a glass room and they lowered me down and I stood right back up and spat of their faces, I made fun of their guns and uniforms but the noise never stopped efficacious pounding and pounding in my brain and their faces was all red and round and they cut me with their knives but I didn't complain or cry, I stared back.

But to trade my country for a flag, God made death so beautiful in our tender blood, Agony, yet zero boundary. The Artist always lives in isolation from society. beauty in death, of your flesh and blood, it just makes us hungry

Her kids walked in smiling, wanting to live a life with happiness and no trauma, but the scene was so gruesome. Blood strewn across the floorboards, soaking into the carpet. The victim's back was split apart, hands and feet severed off at the joints. Every inch of skin had been ripped at and peeled away. The red silhouette of a thin human. She died without an ounce of mercy. It was no monster, nor a eldricth horror that killed her, it was her husband