Traverse the fields of his dreams, his thoughts flow swiftly over the stones of years. Each seperate spark ignites the process of his death.

Formless shadows invade the room and seek refuge in curtains. Far from the senseless man's sight, patterns of murder hang from the windows. The door knob drips with a serpents blood, the evil one's teeth imbedded in the wood.

We will each in turn enter this house, but only the select will return. Vast numbers hidden in closets, from life by imaginary moth balls. Enter the house of murder, your only weapon can be your mind.

Brutal killings of the young flower. A mad dwarf attacks a butterfly in the gentleness of her flight. Measureless rows of contrite insects watch their demise in utter contentment.

I keep all thi recorded, my endless task to witness all. The slave I am, but only to my soul.

The neon light must come on now, people will be stopping soon.