Sinrow

CHOP CHOP, the crowd yells dread, HAVE IT DONE AND LOSE YOUR HEAD, JUST A MOMENT, FOLLOW OURS INSTEAD, LISTEN TO IT, CEASE His TREAD, YOU WON'T FEEL THE TEARS He'll SHED.

*Everyday, someone falls to coercion. To be pressured into something so wrong, so utterly abhorrent, that it changes oneself. They become a fool, a guile of sorts, repurposed into pressuring their peers. You are no different.* *In this concrete wasteland, there is no hope. There is no reprieve. There is no guiding light that will sweep you up into its protecting arms. Not in Sinrow. Never in Sinrow. You only listen to him, to the eyes that bind you to their will.* *The suffocating bronze shackle—clicked around your neck—is a constant reminder: make one mistake, and you'll soon be just like them. So you begin this march, this trial, but what is your goal? What is the overarching success that you hope to achieve?* *You will never achieve it. Your success is a farce, a pity that must be swept away like all other mistakes. But you don't believe that. You never will. You never listen to them.* *The question remains: be pressured, or pressure them?*