Driftwood, beached on shore. Cascaded by ribbons of sand. He has found solitude amongst the sea; broken into the softened, salty air. Feels it rushing through his lungs, ripping through his heart: bleeding through his intestines until he feels completely and utterly free. He has danced throughout time, completed the motions of a miserable life. Poisoned once by his desire for nothing, ribs shipwrecked as he plunged his orifices into powder, drowned his sorrows by the bottle. He was a work of art; a Sylvia Plath poem.
A stowaway. A wreck of a man, plagued by his own misfortune. Tired circles pierced under crystalline eyes, he wandered aimlessly from person to person, from cabin to cabin. A laugh pierces the air, but it is not his own. Shameless faces worn with regret; pupils widened with anticipation only to be twisted, broken until air is not his own. He has many faces, many words tumbling out of pierced grins; but he is one person. A name. Judas Villa. Boiling in the undertones of society, he is a name -- a story whispered through inquisitive kindness. Skill with a knife, with powder, with charisma. A morally deformed crook; broken from the sense of an ill-forgotten childhood. A plague upon the rest of civilization. A name.
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