"Denied by the blind church, because these are not the words of God - the same God that burnt the knowing" - Burzum
He has waited for hours in the shadow of the steeple; his cerebrum whirring with a chaos of intricate thought. A mass of spidery-black hair conceals his pensive and pallid visage. The time is nigh! Fire in the sky he grins, throwing back his obsidian mane with a hint of arrogance. The youth detaches his slender frame from the darkness of the church with fantasies of Armageddon in his head; to begin anew one must first eradicate the old. Around the perimeter of the sacred house of God he leaves an ever thickening trail of gasoline that shines green like butterfly wings in the moonlight. A sly smile slips onto chalky lips, he can feel the anticipation building in his abdomen. The silence is palpable as he swipes a brittle matchstick to life: he can hear the blood coursing through his circulatory system. It does not matter who he is, grins the adolescent, it is simply what he has done that is important. Men fear the church, they follow their empty God to the grave. He stares once more at the tiny orange flicker and then in a sudden burst of just fury hauls it into the train-track of gasoline. Combustion! An inferno erupts, a fiery army quickly begins to lay waste to the holy structure.He stands statue still and for a moment inhales the smoky scent of his victory. No matter how hard they try to pretend that he does not exist, this church will now forever be a skeleton.