Evil

It weren't the tides of tomorrow but the whirlwinds of yesteryears that took over my soul, beckoning to reconcile with the dark arts of love and betrayal.

I could say "hi, how are you doing?" I wish I could say more but everything is too broken to even attempt fixing. Things so broken that they aren't worth fixing: like remains of a beautiful broken vase forever strewn on the floor, forever ignored. Sometimes they pierce my skin and I think about picking those shards out and then continue mulling about. Why do I not know how to bend down pick up and shrug off, cast aside, fling off? I envy evil. Evil has no conscience. He doesn't need to regret. He can do what he wants, whenever he wants to. His soul doesn't beckon him to do anything at all. Isn't Evil happy?