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The corpse lay here, just near my bed

Not just dead but lacerated... and disembowelled.

Flies procreates now, coldness turns to mess.

A liquid runs from the eyes.

I delight in these secretions.

Pus mixed with blood.

I have to crush the cranium.

From corpse to corpse, the ritual is the same.

The blood is true, the blood is real, as real as the flesh I devour.

It makes me feel real.

The scalpel along the skin draws the mutilation.

Rancid organs, putrefying flesh, all removed from their place.

I burst the torso and gorge on blood, the flesh will rot with time.

In osmose with the corpse, its flesh is my flesh; together we are one.

I bathe in blood and post mortal secretions, together we are one...