I had thought i would be writing one thing that had been clear for some time, and as i sat writing the complete opposite it became apparent that my demon had different ideas.

Who could argue?

I fought, i did, but i only succeeded in scratching my own skin.

And so, the story that has commenced has slipped out of my hands so to speak and gone on its own merry direction.

And we return to a cool, grey dystopia. This is what i love to paint most. Cold, dark humanity.

The premise, i suppose, presented by my demon - "In a perfect world without relgion (without the fear of death and inexistence), what on earth would drive an old man to dig up the relics of God?"

I feel as if i have committed to some horrible therapy where those that drove me here have long since gone and it is my name alone in the guestbook.

And so, it begins. Just me and my demon.