...across the sky.

Stars screaming and squealing, simpering a song soaked in sin. Bylah liked to pretend that he knew, that he cared for their stories, their loves and losses, the way people pity pathetic pictures of attention-grubbing whoredom.

Bylah didn't care about such things. He had no need to stoop and scrape for a scapegoat.

He watched them prance, preen, posture and put themselves on display. To him, it was pointless and petty, pretty sad, a state of affairs he never started to begin with.

What was the point of an affair when you had everything you wanted at home, honest and begging for one's attention and love, lust and lazing about on Sundays?

No, Bylah wanted to watch them waste, watch them writhe.

He wanted to watch them suffer.