�black snake moan.

His, is a heart left to wander freely 'mongst the warrings of death and infamy, equally divine in their right possessed ? and collected within itself, silence collapsed its starvation, apathy rendering his compassion no more than a festering lust for blood and delicacy. True love is a dying breed. But hunger and dehydration prolonged the ache of his withering bones and gurgling core; a beast driven from Styx with a taste for salvation in the worst of ways. He cared not for remorse, not for mercy, not for his neighbor who intruded upon the night in such unmannerly rage. Only pleasure, in what means it brought its torment, in what means it lingered upon his lips peeling to reveal slick rows of weathered knives. His grin is viciously unappealing ? without comfort or civility, its cold glint is worn of its welcome and crooked as his disposition; bled of its wry humor even in the sharp of its salacious spread. Yet he seems comfortable in this disturbance, unmoved from the shores and dark waters that lap at his lenient body. There is something unnatural, irrevocable, something horrifically mundane about the nature of his being ? something that moves in him, in his eyes that commit a strange semblance to an unsettling rest. Something dead, something in misery that compels his body by spell and doom to intimate the thrusting knots of his thick muscle and lean thews. Living dead, the romance of his wretched grace, an animated fiend of wrath and beauty infinite ? til the end demeans his ashes and delivers from them a new anathema. ?If you're expecting apprehension I'm afraid you'll be disappointed.? his voice smooths over the peeled exposition of his sneering jaws, lacquered low drone that submits coldly in the midst of the sullen eve.