The wind whispers the words of truth into a blasphemer mind, a mind so self-centred, so close that it doesn't let the thoughts of others in. No story of old times to tell, now only the fate of the damned to see and happen. Pray to your fake gods that the truth never mixes with the lie of humanity. False intentions in the blasphemer eyes, no soul to rest in piece once his body dies. A spirit wondering free, a soul that cries in the children's dreams, the body decays while the memory remains.
He keeps the fire burning at the cold winter night, while he rests his body and soul and refreshes the data of his mind, the things that he refused to learn today. It's raining outside and after a day with good friends, he needs the night alone. Solitude to his mind to reflect. Maybe even open a little, let something important in life to get into that closed room. In the darkness, he paints he's fate and life of a different colour, he believes that he'll fly, that he'll live to see the day that Earth will explode.
He turns the radio on and lets the music take over. The sweet symphonic melody that flies in the air, the mind reader of the closed room. He seeks the void that will take him to eternity. Maybe in the blasphemer mind, he's the truth itself.