They shape us. All of us; Gods today are real; they walk amongst us.

His battlescarred torso torn apart from yet another failed attempt to become the werewolf. But a transformation has indeed occured. A collection of souls made solid. Pinnochio with no concience. A weapon for a God.

A prayer among theives and ingrates who haven't a clue of the sacrifice that has been made.

And as I watch, and weep-- my soul is torn apart and made anew. All questions answer, a ghost within a ghost.

A reverse rebirth has occured and my frozen vissage is healed.

With time, a friendship will end, and possibly a marriage-- but a memory, this memory-- will live on.

A white crow on black paper.

Let us be numb and last one more day.

Yes
No
Do nothing