Of course we rush in, we closet romantics of the post-modern age. We who can't help but to love to the core in the world jaded.
Of course we ignore the battle scars, the wounds earned despite our better judgement. We who can't help to bleed over and over again.
Of course we are to become twisted, doomed to be the worst of the dead. We who have tasted purity in an imperfect world.
Of course the darkness bites at our souls, ravenous to sup upon the once alive. We, the fools, compelled to try again and again.
Be foolish I say. Be alive I say. Be the spark and the light that no one can bear to look at. Bleed. Bleed. Bleed. For we are the hope against the banal. We know, we KNOW the path in the world of the lost.