jotted lines on folded paper...
And so into the black flames of despair did his soul flee, enveloped by the icy bonds of misery, trapped in the throes of a dying vision, remorseful, for unto himself were the crimes of loathing to blame, no fault to be rested on the withered remainders of accomplices long since removed from his ill-begotten world of sick fantasia and repressed memories. Suicidal, he was not, for what freedom does death bring but the release of the need for imminnent salvation, when death is the true meaning of life, and all we accomplish finds its resting place in the remains of our uneternal bodies scattered amongst the soil that parallels our fate in slower rotation.