Wads of paper all around him. All with a unique crumple and equally unique soul. They all lay around him like Chester Bennington at a concert. The fire in his eyes is burnt out, the joints in his fingers bruised and throbbing as much as his head is after that night with the mistress he had picked up right after she dumped dumped her husband for that one strangle he had on her. She knew she liked it rough. Leaving her coat behind he knew she'd be on her way back for it along with her other shoe. Hey lays on the ground with a glisten of glass from that  morning rise and a broken clock faced down into the wood.  The blood already washed half way through the sink with a mixture of wine. The phone starts ringing, his God forsaken mother who he hated for caring so much. He hated the way she cared for him, the way she wipes his tears after spitting the ugly phrase of, "please don't cry babe...mama doesn't like to see you cry".
Wish she'd just disown him already to make the extra step easy and so he wouldn't have to listen to the scratch in her voice. What did words mean to him anyways. He knew exactly what they meant but they only meant it was said by a tear drop and not by an account drop.  Words aren't shit when they're compared to a forbidden face at 3 in the morning waiting for him. He did miss that though, and by holy God she was a forbidden fave amongst those who didn't know him as much as they wanted. Sssshhhhh don't tell'em. Mr.Ainmterz  was that of a fake name, but he saw that man backwards in the glass around him  couldn't stand that face and only wished he was able to break those pieces smaller and smaller. He saw the other man, Mr.Reiavx, was little of the man was left. He was a skinny little shit who couldn't get a grip on reality and realise he was the monster. People had been avoiding him, leaving him, the world had then suddenly turned dark and there was no room to breath unless he admitted to himself the truth, and it was too easy.
Mr.Reiavx was disappointed in himself, every story he wrote that sat around him, they were good, art, masterpieces in those grey eyes he seemed out,  but the only problem, they were only words that carried something and couldn't find someone to carry to, they just the Intensity of his own stuff nobody wanted to hear.
After everything and the very last thing he lived for left her shoe and coat and he dragged the ring through the mud, sweat and blood, was way too easy.

"There is no God."