I dunno if Muse is whispering in my ear or whatever I am about to inscribe are merely tales of dawning insanity from the vertebrae of my brain, but nowadays I am more aware of things I've never questioned.

Such as bloodstreams.

It's common, and known as a word. Any preschooler will tell you that he or she knows the word, it's flowing within them.

But think - it's metaphorical and symbolic. Streams. Streams of blood, meandering through our body, the circulatory system carrying toxins and vitamins, easy to poison and easy to revitalise. Essential for our bodily functions, without it w would perish a terrible death. Can you hear it? The flapping of your heart valves as it contracts and relaxes, the pulse sending ripples and tidal waves along your blood, the drumbeat under your skin in the thin and succulent flesh of your neck, the blood surging like seas when ever you inhale, exhale, going double-time, triple time. All to keep you alive.

Can you see the platelets and red blood cells and white blood cells like minnows, swimming in the depths of crimson? Like sardines they will leap and squeeze through capillary walls to the injury site, healing you and preventing foreign particles from entering the sacred sanctity that is your body. Without these you would be a ravaged, emaciated castle - a human with flesh as flaps and wrapping-foil skin stretched to sheen your translucent bones...

Can you taste the rust and copper, inhale the metallic and mineral scent of blood? Feel its heaviness and pungent scent as it weighs like an iron vest? Feel the warmth within, the wet warmth slowly turn sticky and cold, ejected out like phlegm, gluing and binding you to the person whom you have murdered soliciously, a mark of your sin, the claim on your skin...

That's why murder doesn't fade away. Dead men do speak, you see, their blood speaks for them as they cling to the livery of the one that wronged them, an undeniable stain that cannot be washed off regardless of methods used.Your prayers can't wash it off. It's not physical either, blood, it would be a weakness and a blemish in your soul, a chink in your celestial armour slowly crinkling and melting in the incineration you've created, a personal spot in Hell.

Blood flowing in streams.

Can you feel the bloodlust?