James W Visel

Possibly there is nothing more conducive to thoughts of the Eternal, than having ones face slammed into red, wet muck, with explosions so close your body arcs and bounces off the ground, hot shards burn in your flesh, and concussions are bright flashes of dirty fire beating a tattoo on the light receptors in the backs of your eyes. Your head aches; throbbing from visual shock waves. Time has come to an end; there is no right, no wrong, only whatever...