• tab Across the River Styx, where the immortal cries of human suffering beats to the sound of a whip, you can find all the great villians of our time. This barren wasteland reminds me greatly of the internal sorrow and remorse of those who know constant suffering. Those self-mastecists who watch themselves bleed, there only true way to know that they are alive and not just living out the timeless tortures of some brutal dictators fantasy. Each drop , each soaked towel, nothing more than an irritation, nothing more than a crimson fantasy. Nothing more than an escape from a drunken mom and a non-existent father known only as "him".All nothing more than a cry, a plea of greatest resonance speaking out whenever anyone will listen. Yet, somehow still ignored by society. This is how so many live out their lives of crying, hating, and crying again. Somehow with the setting in of the cold, fuzzy twilight, the last drop of crimson light falls, shattering on the desolate tiles like the dreams of those who never knew their potential, another light fades from this dim world. Proving once again that carelessness ruins would-be great men.