As the sun sets, and the town weeps in sorrow. They would be more dreaded if they knew what awaited in the morrow.

​

They drink and fill themselves with the pleasure of procreation. But they do not stop. These drunkards and whores. They are never on probation. 

​

Even the sheriff unfaithful to his wife, took a dive into a line of cocaine fine and would dine out the cat on the woman's bed where he sat and his hat levied not but nought of nil for he had not yet had his fill of any of that which the windowsil kept flat out of sight in the darkness of the descending night.

​

But the town would curse themselves in their greed, lust and despair, soon to ask why the witches are wooden with their dark stare?

​

If you ever wondered why witches are made of wood, it is because they are born from trees. As trees take in the blood and juices of filth from the ground, that darkness goes around. Nightmares create a humanoid shape, based on murder, lust, betrayed trust and rape.

​

And thus in this moment they became forlorn, for doth quoth the raven: "A witch is born!" 

​

​

​