The dirty lord of the manor surveys his filthy domain. Too many nights raising hell worked a little all too well. Constructed a monument to denial and excess, sunk so low, crawled so far back there’s nowhere left to regress. If these walls could talk, they would tell a horror story; Never-ending winter, violence and infidelity. Shadows fall through broken panes. Careless words that are filled with hate. Just enough to keep it together, never enough to make it work. Follow the path of least expectance.

I don’t hate you, I’m just removing an enemy. Remorse is for the dead, my enemy. Remorse is for the dead.