Ladies and Gentlemen, a toast to the mad:

Here is to the waker and the walker, the stride of death upon tormented nights. Indeed, say I, though your life were bitter and cold, here shall I place my dread lips and scorch the sanity from your frost-bitten porches. Cleave to me, and I will make you bleed.

I claimed sorrow, but none believed me.

My remedy then is to pluck it out.

I have burned the cradles, I have fouled your breath, I have slung your night about my plague and walled you in with pestilence and murder. I am damned, Goddamned sorry.

I have destroyed, I have betrayed. I have spilled your thin blood upon the cold branches of my own tortured realm, and hateful I am of myself for having brought you here.

To slash away the haunt of my voice, my face, until its black emptiness even is torn and healed, that is my one desire. Please, oh God, forget.

Please, oh God, forget.