Dust. Sometime in november I'm situated on my bed - sleepless. Out of the kitchen is the smell of fresh cooking blood, blowing I'm stumbling in the living room and see the girl Mutilated! Skin and muscles were peeled from her face. Eye-balls are hanging on the visual-nerve out of the cavern. You nearly can not bitter the chest which looks like minced meat, from the neck. I'm trying to make a stew out of the girl A frustrating task. In the afternoon I'm passing my time smearing her flesh all over the walls. Chewing skin-stripes that I tear from her body That's my reality! Later, maggots are swarming over the human savage already, the slaver from my lips runs over her. And I don't know it I do it in the right way.