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Do you see it now? My tongue, the dagger at your juggular. My love, sword at your bosom. Which do you want? All I know, one of us was supposed to kill the other. Isn't that what they mean when they say lovers?
CUTTHROAT [2023]
[Listen closely. Are you listening?] A virus demands a body.
There comes a time in the corse of evolution where the fate of a species must be decided. When external conditions test the fortitude of what which has come to be. The day after the world ended, people themselves, became the rot, the infestation. They were their own becoming. The resilience of natural selection is put to the test when faced with the unimaginable, unexpected and most of all, undead.
Maybe there was somehing poetic in the art of dying; the way it leaves a wound in the hearts of those cursed alive, or how it inspires people to fight for something. Some may disagree; there is nothing Shakespearean sonnet type of worthy about blood seeping like the blood of a cherry on your white blouse. Death should be horror, not art.
