A letter writtne home ons tationary, the address marked with the authors blood. I know his leaving was never premeditated, but eighteen years on autopilot will drive someones impulse. Decapitated dools, arson on action figures. So told, not acceptable acts. They figured if hope was twisted within a straightjacket, it would be the perfect solution to prevent an so-called mishaps. The world seemed so colorless. White walls masqueraded the surface of punishment and rehabilitation. I can't grip the burden of shadows. I hope you die. The corners of blended pasts, uniformed to their futures. The final solution is to let me deal. Lets see you grip the burden of shadows.