Vertical bricks provided a bed that was manageable given the circumstances; death was not an option for the faux silver-chained marionette that hung alone in the cold abode like a forgotten puppet estranged behind a childhood door.

Life. If it were not for Life, Charles Turvy would have simply been a toy awaiting disposal. But Life, the fruit of feeling, the deranged madness of rage laid hidden behind his stoic eyes. And, as if his fallen friends were still providing him with motivation, the wind chimes of the remains of past roommates provided a rhythm strong enough to keep his spirit marching forwards.

While a younger Charlie had struggled deciding which path to take, Charles had but one choice: either die now among the raptures of hate in his hears, or live on for the raptures of love in his heart. Knowing this, he continued to execute the only reasonable decision of a principled man. The symphonies of fate would not allow the deafening cacophony of hysterical hate to suffocate the lovely melody of Charles Turvy.

"To those who are listening, know this:" the chained Man of Love poured these words from his mouth, "if not for my own sake, provide me the strength for the sake of others who know not the truth nor the lie, the truly innocent who deserve the warmth of true love, the kindness of kinship, and the confidence of wisdom. Sing the songs of fates determined and I will dance around the roar of the fire!"