He who writes is the martyr, seen through the eyes of the unassuming doll.

In God's eye I spit, hair upon thy rigid tail sharp fangs glittery wet. Earth be thy sand, the sinful be thy toy, I've been playing forever, in song no longer do I find joy. In Gods eye I fight the bad fight with a goal as sharp as an axe, to ungently place thy hands upon its omnipotent thorax.

Look, look close, look closely. How many dollies do you see?

I wouldn't dare attempt to sanitize the actions of the Devil. Either IT is the most abominable creature set upon us to endure, or IT is not. There's no in-between.

There is a doll. The wicked she conjures is never small. Her name is Christie. She likes to play. Takes a break only when you wither away.

I pass the torch to the monster, the beast, the phantasm, Red Buttons who lurks behind the eyes of the pedophile priest. You just continue raping the children. Softening their flesh with fear. I'll stop by once in a while. See if, I don't know, they are tired of "IT" and want to come with me, where they'll make a delicious addition to my carpet of bones.

The image is an example of how horror writers view our world. A view that is far from the norm. Their writing always seeking that visceral fear in us all.

DO YOU 'PREY' WITH THEM (?)

Hell is silence and pain.