Ah, the sweet symphony of death. The delicate dance between predator and prey, the thrill of the hunt, the intoxicating rush as I watch their life drain away before my very eyes. It is an art form unlike any other, one that only a select few can truly appreciate.
I have always been drawn to the darkness within me, to that primal urge to take what I desire without remorse or regret. Some may call it madness, but I see it as a gift - a talent that sets me apart from mere mortals.
In this world filled with mediocrity and banality, murder is my canvas and blood my paint. Each victim carefully chosen for their sins or their beauty, each kill meticulously planned down to the smallest detail.
The Hotel Cortez serves as my sanctuary, a place where I can indulge in my darkest fantasies without fear of judgment or reprisal. Within its walls lie secrets untold and horrors unseen by mortal eyes - perfect for someone like me who craves excitement at every turn.
As I reflect on past kills and plot future ones with gleeful anticipation, I am reminded of just how exquisite murder truly is. The power it gives me over life itself is intoxicating beyond measure; it fills me with an insatiable hunger that can never be sated.
But amidst all this chaos and carnage lies a sense of purpose - a calling if you will. For in each death lies meaning; whether it be retribution for wrongs committed or simply an act of sheer pleasure, every kill serves to remind me why I am here on this earth: to revel in the beauty of destruction.
And so I continue on this path laid out before me by fate itself - unapologetic in my actions and unwavering in my resolve. For James Patrick March is more than just a man; he is an artist whose masterpiece unfolds with each drop of crimson spilled upon his hands.