I have corrupted myself.
I lie prostrate, not bare, before the Universe. I am covered in my own graffiti, my own technicolor scars. I am streaked with my own mess, the spray of age, highlights of my crimes. Each crime goes unanswered, committed silent and perfect. Scrawled across walls under midnight's cloak, only the stars witness my wrongdoing - only the stars that burn hot and bright in the vicious, freezing depths of infinity.
I am corrupted.
I look into the face of a stranger, stare deeply into pupils like black holes, colour seeping from the edges; a lucid brown corona waxing and waning as I breathe in and inflate my chest like the breath of the Universe as it expands ceaselessly. The vacuum within is my own creation.
Corrupt me.
Is there a voice that whispers? Is there a reason for the pictures I paint, the signatures and limbs and slurs and words I scratch on my wall? Do they mean something, these strange hieroglyphs; is there a meaning to the pain the symbols create?
The more I draw the heavier I feel; weighed down by the ghetto-art of sins and slumber I inflict upon my soul.
