Climbing the ladder of hypocracy, moving into darkness to achieve new heights. Stain of ink on a crumpled piece of parchment forever there, picture perfect stain. Silent and maniacal, a little diabolical. Dark corners are made for planning and stewing, or sewing, sewing up the lips of watchers threatening to speak. All this bloodspill and sharpening of blades, they will culminate in the singing of my song from one peak of the toppest mountain of sins and broken hopes and spines. Only when I am there, only when I have fate in my hands only when men bow down to me. Only then will I put up my gilded sword whose hilt has many a time met the breastbones of metaphorical men and women who littered my path with their presence. That, and their righteousness, which is, simply put, the very antithesis of me. Me? I was once a man too, but I grew too large for the idea of servitude and weakness. I alone thirsted for greatness and unholy power. And so as a man I had to claw my way up, to reach this place. This place where I look back and laugh, look at my reflection and ask how I could change inwardly and outwardly, by so MUCH! Then I look up again, and curse. Swimming in lakes of tar, black as my heart, silent as my conscience.