We all bleed the same.

I wonder if everyone on Babble bled the same before and after intervention.

I wonder if everyone knows we bleed the same.

I wonder if anyone ever stopped:

Any soldier dragging the corpse of an enemy,

Any murdered disposing of a body,

Any slave owner hanging up the whip,

And wondered if the blood staining their shirt was their own,

And had to feel their skin beneath, in terror, to make sure,

And wiped the sweat from their forehead in relief.

I wonder if that ever scared them, the congruity of our blood.

Ah, alas, the temptation to share the darkest secrets that I own.

The prodding to unveil the truths so hidden in misery and madness that they now only wear a semblance of reality.

And there is my bubbling desire; a desire tumid with twisted and alien truths. Truths that more closely resemble fantasy that reality. Truths that look more like monsters than animals. Truths that look more like demons than man.

And weighing those alien truths in my mind, I realize that the animals they once were are gone. They have left, in fiery stampede, slowly but rapidly.

And now I am left with the demons. The dark secrets that wander the deep regions of my mind. Now I am left without wonder or reality. Now I am left unable to conjure those secrets for their seekers.

I can only conjure demons, monsters, misery, and madness. I can only conjure secrets, agony, and anguish. I can only conjure sorrow and sadness.

So we’ll let the demons stay in darkness and the monsters in my mind. Maybe I’ll try and conjure the secrets some other time.

And while we wait, we’ll let the demons transform into the monsters of demons. The darkness into the shadow of the dark. I see no other option.

Let us wait.