Thou art an abomination!
Thou possesses the art of misery.
There is no good in thine heart.
Thou art an inhaler of mirth.
My friend, why hast thou turned against me? It was not my fault!
Soothe me. Ease me. Do not throw me off the wicked cliffs, and upon the bitter spikes of his memory. Of death. Of regret. Of fear and angst.
I am who I am not. And I live to be, while being is absent.
Morsarch the Nameless. The Black Grave. Fie him! Fie myself!
When he went, I went with him. And from the ashes of my despair rose the loather.
Why hast thou made me remember? For what unholy deed didst thou have to awaken that which was buried? In the name of thine foul act willst thou be cast into the deep pits of my black memories and rot away there until thy body collapses in a state of damned decay!
Thou art not my friend, my Conscious.
I resent thee.
Dost thou remember? Death is good.
The flies. The butterflies.
My eyes have not closed for days.
Please, let me rest. And forgive my words.
Azardâur, son of Agankôth.
It are but words.
