Death

He moves with a rapid beat to his untamed step. He's refined and O so terribly wretched. He's the divine disguise of sin, and yet there's a classy regalia about him. Vermilion. Sneaky. Enchanted. It's terribly strange to pair such words with a man of such force, of such definition, and yet there is nothing more perfect. He is the incarnation of the sins the inhabitants of the word refuse. The imperfect embodiment of rapture.

Wildly, his rough body, his rough musculature, lift over the rocky boundaries of the land and his ears press against his massive skull as an unearthly breeze passes through his coat. He is taken off guard, the unpleasant feeling of the O so pure breeze disturbs him and he responds so dramatically, curses rolling from under his breath. Muscular thighs rest against the ground and his skull tips forward, glaring into the abyss of darkness that is the volcano. He wonders for so long how far he would fall. Eternity? Would that be long enough? Could he merely lay back into the darkness and allow it to swallow him? He knew the answer to his question. He knew that he was wrong to consider such lies. If the land mass was active, he wall fall into a pit of heat. He would writhe in the fires for a split second before darkness befell him and he was no more. On the contrary, if the system was inactive, he would eventually reach the bottom and every bone in his body would crack, would break, and still he would be no more.

His senses were so invoked, so hungrily dissecting the truth. In life there were so many ways to die. So many thing that could take over take one. As his nails curled beneath his toes his rigorous body would rise, chartreuse gaze drifting forward, and for the first time in o so long, a blissful smile would occupy his features. Death. The only answer to life's problems.