I am a spiral. A maelstrom of fuchsia. I am a lane of rocks, pointing smoothly downward. I am intoxicating, breathtaking. Unearthly.

I am beautiful in my imperfections.

I am a burning river. I am so cold, I burn. Burn with a fire made of intensity, of unadulterated passion. My eyes are broken orbs, cerulean in daylight, onyx by midnight.

Something of a paradox. I am a Fallen Angel. I lived in heaven once, but grew bored with its perfection. I slit my wrists and covered myself in crimson. I prefer Hell to Heaven.

I am a glass dagger. A silver knife. Instruments of fatal beauty. My voice is crushed velvet. Cathedrals collapse at my word, terror in their altars. I am.

I am passionate, intense, stunning, multi-faceted. I am human and Other. I am rage and anger, love and hope.

I paint parallels between beauty and knowledge, pain and oblivion. Pain is the price of human imperfection. Everything has a price.

Something of a paradox.

I am Chaos, laughing at your world from a carriage made of lies. Life matters not. Death matters not. I exist merely to be amused. I laugh, I weep, I live, I die, I read, I write, I dance, I sing, I bleed. I move on.

I shroud myself in mystery, looking up at you through eyes that see all. You will never understand me, never come to comprehend what makes me who I am. I can let you in, but you will never make your way through my labyrinth.

Something of a paradox.