The cold rides the wind as jockey does a racehorse. Bitter iciness touches the innermost parts of the body and creeps into your lungs. Each raindrop is a frigid lick upon the skin. From my lone window the lake appears to be in turmoil. The water thrashes about as would a drunkard. A familiar aura seems to preceed this orchestra of dreariness. A feeling as if somehow it resembles my inner being , that somewhere inside I have the same cold storm creeping about. To say that we as the human race do not resemble nature would be a falsehood of incomprehensible ignorance.
- Murderotika III ( Rayfield Benton)
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