This is Towards The Black Star, and speaking to you is, let's just say, T. (for his name shall not be revealed), the de facto possessor of the abominable mass of flesh. I work a miserable job at a third world country in a pitiful position of authority, which doesn't fail to give me (or him) a plethora of goosebumps and headaches. Such is the suffering that following 3 years of working at, let's call it, Company F, a parasite of some sorts, who calls himself Ingvarr, decided to make home of my mind. He (or me?) hates me (or him) to such an intensity that, if such parasite didn't depend on the crooked mass of flesh to use as a vessel, we (they) would've killed our(them)selves already. And I HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE each one of these people, the same people the parasite oh so loves, or at least pretends to. He won't be late to introduce him(my)self, I'm not interested in his words however, since all he does is shouting about how pathetic I am and how Company F isn't so bad and how he is proud of his work. This is is is a place to manifest the inner machinations of my mind without being taken by delusion, feel free to read whatever you please.