Are my eyes deceiving me, or am I really seeing this ghostly appearance beyond yonder in the smoking horizon? Bob Albert Ruth; never has the haunting presence of this man perplexed me as such. This enigma can only be described as follows: his baggy, dark eyes hang lower than a lunar eclipse in the night sky, and his substance-less wit dries fast within the tone of the conversation. His speech is sour and his motive supercilious. A dead man walking, and for why? To prove some altruistic motive about his plan, the revival of Famiglia di Fiamma? Wasted chain-reaction years? The knife that stab at us in the twilight? No, his words ring sharper in my head than even a million stabs with the blade of Thai. "The truth is out there", he says, barren, in the desert sand, a crescent moon shyly above.
Where could you be to parallel a more alluring scene to bask within the all-glorious moonlight? And under the quizzical gaze of his glory boys, where could you even if you relented? Our moment has passed, and what is left is the comical afterbirth of an idea; and through it all, you have served us proud. I would perhaps even toast if I still had a hand to raise or a voice to speak nothings. Nothing is sweeter, and yet I feel as if I owe you more than dime-a-dozen pleasantries or white lies. You have given us meaning, and for what? I am but human, bound to the lowest nucleic chain of degeneracy. But now as we assemble often under the sickly Earth, we are bound with our new purpose. And though our guiding light is fucked abroad, our heart knows nowhere but home; and under these towering mounts of stone we move towards Appalachia. Now forgetful are our futures and regretful is the past, and if I could have made our grip last, I would have raised my magnificent hand in the highest honor to toast the respectful Bob Ruth.
Still, his name had cursed me so. I couldn't recall the meaningless parables even if I wished to, nor could I recall the beseeched eyes of Big Brother ever matching the sap that define our niche. His holy passion for himself exist only in the deep sand of this scorched Earth, where he and I stood so, so long ago. And now we kneel only to the divine forefather Tsukuyomi to plead for safe travels along our way. I would have ended him and I if i knew what was to come. The swift grace of the Two Years War of October has not left me and it never will. I had never considered myself unfortunate, rather weak-minded. The willpower once exhibited has all but waned like a candle in the darkness. The smog that once filled a grandeur city of hope no longer obscures my vision, yet still I wander aimlessly among the silvery night sky.
And we still lie in the sand, our home not be known. Our home is never known, for the torment of yesterday will always override even our greatest of desires. Even as we move towards Appalachia, I feel as if our effort is for naught. And though he digs into this naked Earth, I know our effort is meaningless. The all-benevolent God of the Shell has left us. Vermillion has left us. What have we now that could pull out from the ground to guide us? Tsukuyomi cannot hear me and neither can I feel his presence as I pray towards the Moon, home. And though we are uncertain of our future, I can say that if we continue for all that time is worth, though as desperation takes hold of our feeble minds, we will surely find it one day. And though the flies may pick at our skin and the sky may rain blood, I know we will find our way. The moon may pass, and our heads may come off at last, but I know that come one day, under the tutelar light of the moon and the holy spirit of Tsukuyomi, we shall be free.