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mood |
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kill the scribe |
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I keep using these same fucking words over and over. The exact words that I condemned as useless.
You will all get what you deserve, both the commendable and the loathsome. The ignominious, I'll sneer while you burn. And those admirable will be rewarded with the same marvelous gifts they gave to me. Do you remember when all I could see was grey and red? Grey turns to black today.
If your blood is boiling, it's because you know that I am right, and you are sorry- but too proud to admit it. You will accuse and question me. Even if you aren't sorry, you will be. Penance is so above you all. When you scratch at my feet as filthy curs do, I will jeer and spit and kick. Enjoy it as something better than damned cold neglect, and something more than you've earned.
Pestilence would be redress in this case, but you are already rotting carrion. Ashes is what you anticipate.
There are sparks everywhere, sprites setting them off. You are a nymph, and you act like you are better than their ignition attempts.
I will only submit the best of my organs if I die by plague or poison. The case being so, you may do with them as you wish.
I dare you to look at my face, the one of granite, and say to it what you put between the quotations. Statues once envied my tenacity- now as I dissolve, the wave of dispassion washing over feels animating.
The importance of air is exaggerated, taking only water as nourishment. This is what I deserve.
When I become immobilized with shock, get out your scalpel and carve. To be fair, I will douse you with fluids equally volatile as you.
And then the sparks will get to you. I said I'll smile as you burn.
I don't know why you are so steadfast in painting me green. I already told you what colors I see.
The feelings which guided me were chemical, at best. I have to wonder if they were ever really there.
The replacement was slow and furtive; I commend you on your ability to remove my heart from my body whilst managing to keep it beating all this time. I hope you're enraptured and jubilant now, and it's only fair if you are imprisoning yourself.
My name is little more than a pathetic addition to an old, but short, leather-bound book which arouses the interest of no one. I was the terminal diamond tag.
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