Sentence^

The trees are above me, I see it now, even with those limbs, reaching for my eyes, reaching for revenge, for the hope of revenge. Pointless, a tipless arrow, and still I swallow, hard as concentration. I know what is coming.

It doesn't make it easier. Nothing makes it easier. A new kind of hot, the same shade as Night's closed eyes, and thick, thick with soft and sharp noises, blending together, a symphony to choke upon, something else to choke upon. I am fear. I know nothing else here. Something was good and now there is this. Prison, and I am the thought in every form, I am the dread which is placed between the hands of two creatures in love, the terror which makes bones crunch so that further loss cannot come.

My sentence is to remember my every sin, to become my action, my victim, to become the blood which I have spilt, and make then of that blood my ink.
There is always more to a crime than the crime. There are the ripples and the echoes, some fade away in the end, and some, some more backwards to the beginning.

I believe I am surfing those ripples, those echoes. I am trapped on a wave, moving back to a point where I can be blameless, then blamed for everything.