The world before one such as myself is such a waste. The pitiful creatures in my wake calling themselves humans, as if they have such a right. It disgusts me, all of it, yet what can one do? The ones bowing before their masters, those authorities, would try to have me killed if I showed what a real human is. Why is this reality? What is real lies in me. My world, in my control.

It's a shame no one else seems to do as I do, live out their true selves. The night beckons to them, yet they ignore the call. I shouldn't expect anything from them, their idiocy sickens me, hence the world of the night. Letting the mortal eye close, and looking to the inside.

The world that I travel to so very often is like this one, the people going about their ways, walking blindly around until their deaths. I'm more than willing to grant it to them in a dramatic flare of fire and cries. Being the god of doom, forcing a few servants into my arena to hurt the mortals, lock them down in the innards of the earth, torturing those captives with knives and acid, shocks and strikes. Showing the men of the city the finity of their oh-so precious loved ones and their homes. The cries of agony of their mind and body is more than music to my unholy ears. Watching their friends desperately help them, comfort them, I must stop them. I invisibly open wounds, watching the face of the men I have ruined as they see the only ones who care about them fall to the floor in a pile of blood and flesh.

I do this so often though, it starts to bore me. I've started leaving some locked in cells, burning alive or being cut open, living through it all. Forcing some to go against themselves though, is simply the best activity I can hope for. Leaving them bereft of funds, their family leaving them behind, their homes being taken back, their jobs lost, leaving them begging any they see on the street. They'll find no kindness here, as no one here has anything left to give anymore. Soon enough, they lose the option, they must do something to survive, even at the cost of their fellows. I don't leave them there though, oh no, I make them feel every wound they inflict, every consequence of their actions, and every cry for mercy. They never give it, I don't let them.

Such fun it is to watch invisibly. Still, the perspective of a mortal is one worth exploring. Taking the form of myself in the dulling nightmare of reality and walking through the city, I see the mayhem, the crime I've forced, the tears and blood on the ground, the smell of smoke in the air. People run up to my unscathed form, begging me for even a little. I never help them. Perhaps it is better to leave them sulking, perhaps it is best when I walk up to them, put my hand on their shoulder, and say "of course, friend," as I sneak my knife up into them. They always look up, blood trickling from their mouth, their expressions one of confusion, sadness, and question. I let them fall to the ground as I walk along, having taken the knife back. All of this, only to do it over again the next night. Sweeter dreams cannot be had.