I thought I was never going to meet you. Finally, I met you. ¿Finally? WHAT ARE YOU, after all? What are you trying to tell me?
You crazy, ironic, motherfucking ghost. You are fed by Ultra-Violence. You are fed by everything I subconsciously fear in people.
You are the living –are you really alive?- proof that damage is possible, and immortality lives among us, human beings. You are still dark as hell, bloody as fuck.
You are all colors, yet always dress in black and look like snow.
You have the ability and motivation to conquer and destroy the world –as I know you are dying to do- but still, you live being invisible, and I only picture you once in a while.
Today is one of those days. Those days I’m afraid you’ll be laying behind me with your ghostly hand on my shoulder and your lips on my neck, feeding my imagination.
Miguel Izaguirre // The fear of you, whatever your name is.