You follow.

Something. Anything. Everything. You don't know. You follow the rattlesnake in your brain. He tells you what to do. Do you listen? Yes. No. Sometimes. Maybe. Never. Always. You hate him. You love him. You listen to the poisonous lover. Our wonderful sickening fiend. You appreciate his insane companionship. You are the insane one. Little do you know. Our little snake follows in our footsteps. But you, my darling Revan..You think it is the other way around.

The slurring cretin needs a name. Perhaps. Possibly. But what? What shall we call our little friend? You can't think of something. And yet again, you rely on the rattler. You ask the little devil what name he wishes to have. He replies in his sing-song slurring tone. Something that slurs nicely. You can hear the smile in his voice. You turn your own curvature to devilish smile. You know he feels it. You feel the insane proudness erupt from his invisible being. The poisonous lover awaits. A name. Syphorno. Delicious. His tongue rolls on the last letter.

Of course. You smirk. Naughty. Playful. Insane. Welcoming. You begin to notice the cold. The wonderful, welcoming, frozen hell. You stare at the backwards icicles. You dance between them. A dance of death. A lingering, amazing, devious death. You enjoy it. Don't try to lie to us. You sides scrape the sharpened ice, your spine quivers. You scream at yous spine. Aloud. You are not weak. Never. You continue to to move lithely between the lethal spires. You continue to scrape along.

You occuli peer off to the sides of the wasteland you have come to like. Oddly enough. You like this barren place. Its like you. Barren. Lonely. Perfect. You stare at the trees that peer back at you. They are scarred. Scarred horrendously. You love it. This place is beaten. Forever. Its perfect. Just like you.

You clear your throat. The sound shocks you, but you dare not show it.

Your voice erupts from somewhere hidden.

My wasteland. My Oblivion. Mine.