We are children of the night.
We live for the night, and abhor the day.
We live for death and abhor life.
We celebrate the sun setting and cringe at its rise.
We gladly fall asleep into death, yet we furrow our brow at the rebirth of morning.
We work to live, and hate both; or we live to work, and never stop.
We sing a sad song happily, and sadly sing a happy song.
We hate from our heart, and love from our head.
We are born alone, and die alone.
But occasionally we stumble into light.
But the bright, burning bliss blisters our brow.
But past the plethora of pain produces pictures purely perceived as perfection.
And this emergence is life.
But wait for me.
I still love the night.
