You want to die having experienced this eruption once. For what is life
without such infringement if not mere ripening concluding in decay.
What sets us, Man, apart from beast is our ability to self-deceive and
swindle others. The rogue's advantage over quarry is his capacity to
have his lies transmuted till you believe them true.
I trek the unpaved pathways between my truth and your delusions. What
am I, fiend or angel? A weak, disintegrating apparition - or a
triumphant growth? I am devoid of conscience in my own reflection. It
is a cause for mirth. My complex is binary: to fight or flight, I'm
well or ill, it should have been this way or I was led astray.
I am the blinding murkiness that never sets, not even when I sleep. It
overwhelms me, too, but also renders me farsighted. It taught me my
survival: strike ere you are struck, abandon ere you're trashed,
control ere you are subjugated.
So what do you say to it now? I told you everything and haven't said a
word. You knew it all before. You grasp how dire my need is for your
blood, your hurt, the traumatic coma that will follow. They say one's
death bequeaths another's life. It is the most profound destination, to
will existence to your pining duplicate.
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