It's funny. Really. How you think its all a joke. You laugh, you laugh at it all. Don't you think at all? Who does think, really? Go ahead. Keep throwing it out there. Your accusations. Saying these things. Saying I've talked of sacrifice. Saying I've threatened to use your blood for a ritual. I didn't. And you say so all because of one thing I never even talked about. So how do you know? How can you know anything when I hardly talk at all? You think you're doing something right when you yell "sheep, sheep," at me in the halls. But I don't hear you. I don't hear anything. Those knife wounds words leave? They don't hurt. They're not bleeding. Just empty where part of me used to be. But it doesn't matter. Neither do you. You're words? Ha. How do you know? How do think at all? Sheep? Everything you say has no basis in this world, neither do I. Tick, tock. I'm tired of your ridicule of something you know nothing of. Look at me. Look at me. My heart? You call it defective? Its still beating, beating like a drum to the songs in my mind. You know nothing. And never will.

It's funny, really.