I bleed because I am living without a life, infinitely apparent in the world. They say death is the only true constant in the world, so they falsely hope for immortality to be given to disprove it, but immortality is not to live without death or proof against it, immortality is to be death. Now it isn’t about the skull and scythe, but you fit me with a cloak and the image in front of you will be so much they’ll call me Georgia.
Now it doesn’t take a toilet seat breaking the concrete you were once on after fatefully passing a black man in a hawaian shirt to become it, you just have to be willing to live in the sweet-and-sour crossover between the Necropolis and Valhalla.
That is my will, and so I bleed.