drown, I beg of you.

Myra Hindley lives
and it is not in your place to decide whether this is an element of fact, opinion, illusion or delusion; just as it is not your place to observe my artwork and suggest that you know every intention of its construction. You can not see the rich blood seeping from its canvas pores, you can see only the cloak of colours. I suggest you keep your eyes there; wading through quicksand not worthy of tread is dangerous task. You may very well yank your chins to the skies and claim she is of cremated product, and her ashes freely scattered among windy Moors and forever lost; and you most definitely will polish your ignorance off by wishing rape, torture and death upon her had the prospect been she was alive before you. And I may very well laugh at you and tell you that you're just as bad as you think she is, because you condone the same practices and fight to justify your opinion on why they should be inflicted to begin with. And in result, you will retract your arguments like fishermen reeling back their naked hooks; you will try to laugh at me but you laugh with me as I laugh at YOU. Many killers do the same: they find ways to manipulate and justify a situation and usually they are frowned upon because of it. I frown upon you, poor bad and closeted people. You're all in the same sinking ship; I suggest you choke on those waters before Miss Hindley comes and does it for you. She does indeed live, and in spirit; and I wouldn't be so quick to exhale upon her heir. Can you hear me smiling?