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The politeness ate at itself until what was left; the bare bones of anger. 

This rage didn't find pleasure in the company of others.

It sat in a corner, conjuring up schemes that slowly collected dust.

There by his side, laid a mysterious book, when opened revealed nothing but vacant pages. 

In the dampness of the couch, he sat staring into it mumbling feverishly. 

What seemed to outdo eternity, suddenly a swift motion surprised his own senses.

His hand found the finely carved wrinkles around her neck, carefully tracing where it ended.

Like a complex map, her body reflected old age yet a strange sense of innocence.

He found mad pleasure in seeing such purity in her worn soul vehicle.

The ritual was about to take place, euphoria suddenly occupying his vision.

Winter of terror filled her whites while her weak arms tried to push him away.

Bloodshot and blue, her limbs merged with the furniture; cold and unconscious.

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