Perfect Blue

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Splatter~

It's just death ya know, not like when the world is spinnin'

Blood is just the liquid that keeps us moving, just the oil that keeps the gears in place, who should care if there's a little waste? It's just a stain on a mechanics hands as he twists the bolts away.

My hands.

Killer? Labels and names for things without name. As if the dying could understand the significance in death, it's just their life, it has no meaning, no worth, no significance.

Me? I have worth? You think that pride would be the answer to this twisted little game?

How sad.

I'm just as pathetic as the dying, just as worthless in the face of white and the mako-light. It's so insignificant.

This great city, this pulsing heart that rushes blood to every facet of creation, blood and bones and tears, the fuel of great machines. No machine has life, ya know. Not even the human machine ~ just a game, pretty game.

Drip~

It's just death ya know, not like when the world is spinnin'

Blood is just the liquid that purges, like the water inside a drain that washes the dirt away, washing the knives and spoons clean, crystal clean, who should care if there's a little waste? It's just a stain on the floor when the door is opened and the liquid flows away.

Washing, washing away our sins. My sins.

Assassin? How sweet, you gave me a name. What can you see in your clouded, dirty eyes, in the orbs that burn with smoke and ash. Lovely city, Midgar's Plate, the glass of the tower, the rim of world, the spire that stretches and forks into the sky. Stained. Every stain needs a washing ...

Stunning in white, lovely bright.

So insignificant ...

Crush ~

It's just death ya know, not like when the world is spinnin'

Pyro. Comes with the hair, ya see, flames and ice and the crackle of pure electric power. Watching things burn, watching the blood hiss and steam and writhe away to nothing, the stain purged to fire and ash.

Infuriating whiteness.

Thought I'd revert to form, neh? Whisper about the little regard I have for life, the absolute coldness in which I regard the game I call death.

Sparkling, glittering gold.

It's an obsession. Liquor, alcohol, sugar, drugs, anything you can shoot up or rub into your skin ... nothing eases the craving.

Sapphire bright, cold like ice, sheathed in silent frost.

It's an addiction.

Blood is just sex, liquid merging, silent union of bodies, with little need for the thing people call love, heating and intoxicating, and spilling away to nothing ...

Nothing ...

No one ...

Gods damn the brilliant white angel.

Love is nothing, it doesn't exist, it's an illusion to cloud the mind and allow people you can never trust close to you.

It doesn't exist.

Snap~

I won't let it exist.

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