 The best lies are gutted truths, or so speaks to Eilish with the hood of an apostle. Feed us thy honeyed words within the burnt shell of bitter truths, so we may not seek deeper meaning. To seek deeper meaning is to assume a wrong. To seek a wrong is to incur the wrath of God. Ink-stained flesh lies in wet strips on rough-hewn castle stone. A bloodless hand yet holds a weapon it never meant to hold. Sharp red teeth hide behind sweet red lips. Let thy sharp and white be stained with cherry and sun-soaked indulgence, lest you touch what you were not meant to hold. Is this all there is? Crimson frost on shattered glass lies in hush morning of winter snow's bloodless deaths. When will spring come? It's been years. Perfect white against a whiter sky, crystal and hatred spiraling into oblivion. A cutting snowstorm of ice and fear. No words, no eyes, no ears. How did we get here? The dead and forgotten lies sleeping under the snow, rib cages and shins jutting out as imperfections in the white abyss. But as with all in the world, as above, so below, and the bones have learned. What was once quiet melody is now a wicked lullaby. Those they have not, and hearts they shall hold, strangled and muffled until their struggling stops and they have forgotten how to leave. What is virtue? Virtuous blood spills, steams, sinks through the white, seeking what lies below the snow with a hot hope of new spring. But a land of winter this has been, and a land of winter this remains. Witches' winds whip through the sky, the snow starts again, and the blood is buried. What is blood, sweat and tears, if there is nobody left to hear? A revolution of millions becomes a half-hearted idea held by one. Isolation and ignorance are the snow which buries. The best revolution is that which, when asked to muffle their screams, does so without hesitation, or so states the betrayer wearing the crown of a king.