There is a mark in the palm of my right hand that I almost couldn't remember procuring. Why I couldn't almost remember was because today was a monumental joykiller. The Antediluvians are at it again as they normally would, crashing and burning and salivating at the thought of me in very precarious situations. Something tells me to tidy up and destroy the evidence of joy that is left from last night's escapade. But why should I? If it's the only thing that caresses my soft spot for hope. I can't even help but be sentimental to a one-hour tattoo because it's the only thing that reminds me of what it means to be happy with people. Because as it normally turns out, the people always concoct different ways of disappointment, and therein lies in the middle a sore misanthrope: none other than me, silently whispering solitude in the blanched, moist sky, with nothing but promises of gold buried deep by the Antediluvians who wish to inflict me pain. Pain of the utmost torture, because life is pain, and pain is destiny.