There is something about the whole ordeal. unpleasant, ghastly, gruesome, fearsome, awe-striking, damn fantastic. We turn our head slightly, spitting out a mouthful of crimson onto the sweaty, slippery tarmac.
The taste of blood lingers; awful and yet all-too familiar. We don’t like strong tastes, unless it can be drowned by iced americano. The painful cuts and bruises we've been forced to feel is a sign that we are still alive. We are only human.
“Well, that's a pretty face you got there. What brings you to a fight club?" The flaw in the control we've got over ourselves, the crows that have entirely lost their flightpath. The wings turn to white. We won't stop the fight.