Relishing the agony of stinging nightmares' mark is a trick whose goal most cunning does hamper coming dark, for what is sunlight of a dream but one of terror's absence? And all that does grim fantasy clean is having known too well its talons.
Does the passage of my righteous feign for sake of wrong? Does my tunnel weep, blasphemous in its seemingly syrupy song? Is my voice merely caniving, a plague my eyes from blinded? I shall halt my every striving, for evil's in all I've kindled.
My paws roam the realm of a world caving in, an ocean one moment calm abruptly thrashed by wind. Can not the threshold bare my minuscule requests? But see the gates of paper tare, a tear such a conquest.
