I'm not going to put up with your games forever. You've made my heart swell with natural ecstasy and throb with crushing pain, fly to the hydrogen-soaked stars and fall to the tear-inflicted earth. You've let me glimpse into my heaven, you've near kicked me into my hell. Which way will it ultimately be after we've sorted through the catastrophe's remains? Will you bathe me in fresh, crimson rose petals, leading me to my eternal sanctuary? Or will you poison your final words with pollen of atrocity, allowing flames fueled by shriveled, black flower carcasses to lick at my paling flesh? Select your weapon.