An abandoned building left to rot; its dead roots grounded in the earth giving itself a grotesque presence. The crumbling foundation had scattered garbage and the aroma of a homeless man’s piss. Large openings in the building allowed all kinds of things to crawl through. But some viewed this place as a decaying paradise.  

They assembled around an unstable, blood-red lit stage giving attention to a magnified, raspy voice. Disciples of songs of damned virtue. The horde cavorted to each lyric falling from the amateur artist’s pierced lip like a sermon easily blocking the rightful choir’s song. The electrifying pulsing guitar riffs and pounding drums invigorated the crowd. Bursting bright blues, neon greens and magentas rendered temporary sightlessness in some individuals. The compact crowd indulged in a celebration of consumption. Burning, clear liquid slithered down their throats as if to ignite life back into a cadaver. With urgency, they infused herbal smoke into their lungs causing a moment of suffocation, but then the euphoric feeling of release. Through glossed over brown, blue, green eyes their optics blurred, swirled, and bent in odd manners. Finally, the cerebrum inebriated with delusional fantasies, no longer plagued with the reminder of reality beyond the ground walls.  

The warm vital fluid palpitated through their artery channels as their bodies were baptized in a glistening sheen of sweat. Raised toward the heavens are fists with the middle finger sticking up proudly. Although every participant is unalike, each one has theorized the tip of the scale, each one has questioned whether to be good or bad. Every dweller in this establishment is covered in different linings of sable, unpigmented, or bronze, however, each one is encouraged in carnality.  

For in this sanctuary, it is this congregation’s only chance to engage in indulgence. Outside they are subjected to the rules of normality, to apply the advice of saints.  

It is bittersweet.  

To be who you are is a concept that no longer exists in reality. Conformity is the truest form of personality on the outside. The constant reminder of not being the same as others always within their minds, to eventually become copies. People outside this abandoned building crave structure, system, but those within this structure desire the opposite. To answer to a higher prophet and ask for His forgiveness on every transgression. Those in the outer exterior believe that the evil spirit lies in every impure thought.  

That may be the only thing they got right. I do not come to you with a red face and horns. I come to you with everything that you have ever wanted. I was once an angel. I still retain my heavenly features just with a darker morality. The corner of my lip curled upwards at that thought. I wish I could see the innocence in everything again, but this shelter where people can experience nature in its most realistic form is too entertaining. Its places like this, where the good God disappears and I can let my compelling influence takeover, how could I not be entertained? I truly feel bad for the people who never give into damnation.