I have set out; I have destroyed all that was my life. Every possible connection is severed . Every vein, every capillary, opened. Every tear drop of crimson running from my eye sockets , every scrap of flesh and every crumbling scab, every pustule that creeps its way across my body, all are bursting forth, shedding onto the floor in a stinking mass of putrescent flesh. My diseased tongue is spilling forth its pus, my toenails are falling off. My hair is pulled out in clumps, my scalp has become shredded and burned. My wrists have thousands of cuts in them--I have a hard time imagining the skin of a man to be capable of recovering from such severe tears, red ditches carved into fragile valleys. My stomach has become ulcerated; my intestines, necrotic; my eyes, [redacted]; my lungs, blackened with smoke; my brain, tumorous and inflamed. There is rust surrounding the wound where the Organ of Sin once resided (the old saw from the shed was not in very good condition).

All of my experience is now blindness and pain, and naught but a sickening bloodstench besides. There is hardly anything but bones left; and what of me is left in the bones?

I have set out to destroy my own life, and I have succeeded.

(have I made my resurgence, intact, out of Infamy?)