Looking with a cold remoteness, a detached mind, seeing the bright steel in your flesh, twisting, staring into your eyes as you die, feeling nothing. Why should I? No soul resides in my flesh, I am cold, unfeeling. I am born a reptile of the night, and shall die as such. The people look at me, they see humor in my behavior, yet no humor is there when thick, warm ropes fall from their body cavities. They scream, with agony, passion, and emotion, chemicals interacting in harsh, brutal ways to produce feelings, and die. Die. They die. Death comes unto them.
