Literature
An old gothic poem I wrote
On the darkest hour of this night, the curtain of your judgement will fall, giving entrance to the requiem of the dead.
An opera with the theme of your sins, the old romance of the withered beauty. A masquerade unveils the lies that were mistaken with the vanity of an empty reflection in the mirror.
A garden filled with your hatred devours your loneliest desire. The bell sings till your soul is nevermore, it announces that your funeral has begun. You life in now in judgement; nobody told you narcissism was a deadly sin.
Don't worry, I promise you won't suffer much with your punishment. Your screams of agony will be enough pleasure to satis