His knife is red, a beautiful, macabre, picturesque red

His knife is red, a beautiful, macabre, picturesque red. Her blood splattered the beautiful crystal blue of her own painting. He hums “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” as he lumbers away from her still-warm corpse.

He’d always wanted to meet John Lennon, but the poor man had been killed years prior to the man’s birth.

The man, as a child, used to lock himself up in his room, listening to the cool sound of The Beatles’ music. He loved how John Lennon had dreamed about a world with no violence.

Everyone knew that was impossible, unfathomable. The human nature was violence. Blood, gore, shooting, stabbing, punching, marring in any and every way possible. It was purely impossible to live a life of peace, a life in Utopia.

But who believed dreams could come true anymore? Dreams… what fickle things, dreams are. Minuet and almost impossible.

The man had many dreams. He wanted to be remembered in history, to be known to the world, to find his true name, to understand why he had no parents, and to find… to find…

It’s not important.