A letter written home on stationary, the address marked with the author's

blood. I know his leaving was never premeditated, but eighteen years on

auto-pilot...will drive someone's impulse. decapitated dolls. Arson on action

figures. So told, not acceptable acts. They figured if hope was twisted

within a straitjacket, it would be the perfect solution to prevent so called

mishaps. The worls seemed so colorless. White walls masquerade the surface of

punishment (and rehabilitation) I can't grip the burden of shadows. I hope

you die! The corners of blended pasts, uninformed to their futures. The final

solution is to let me deal. Let's see you grip the burden of shadows. Let's

see you grip the burden of shadows. The burden of shadows.