Mortus Frigus
Reserved & W.I.P. by H8nter
"The Black Ink writes on me in words I do not wish to read.."
The Sun
There comes a point in all our lives, where we realize we have a story to tell. Most of us usually do not think of our lives
in a very spectacular way, we're just people, doing ordinary people-things.
But we all have a story to tell.
We all had those strange encounters, odd relationships and other peculiarities.
After a period of time, we just learn to string together the proper narrative to the story of our lives, to define who we are;
we are not quite sure in the beginning, not quite sure what we've accomplished.
My story started in 1959,
but it was not until 1984, that I truly learned who, or perhaps rather what, I was.
I was born in Newfoundland, Canada, into what was a very God-fearing little family, consisting only of my beloved mother and I.
My father had left before I was born, which had perhaps rightfully made her bitter.
I quite often got very sick,
back, when I was but a very young boy; my mother would make me pray to God for help.
