An envelope sealed with a wax kiss. My lips; the letter; in fear of themselves. The year of sprinting backward, in motion of memory’s death. She no longer had the gift; taken from her by virtue of the Lord; a graveyard of unopened secrets had been explored in vain, and in this vain it was the countenance of her state of virtue’s gift that had been tested, and before her ego; and it was her ego that was realized; wax sealed – hiding behind that brutal death of accountability – she had awoken a beast long slept, and long slept had it been to have such power and ferociousness that it did; lashing and smashing all fret and all frustrate in sight. This is I, This is Me, I have become the Beast that I had long since acquired, and long since had cried. Now I toil, coiled within that darkened knowing of destruction caused by I, by Me, by that broken Soul; that deadly ego of Thine. I shall not escape it, isolate it, put it away for awhile on a shelf in the attic – for it is here, and here is where it must be known, and to come to a knowledge of, an understanding of brutality, and that evilness, and that dark humanity of a grace once given.