The thing that squelches through veins that oozes in muddy, viscous red on ruined underwear ; a blossoming, they call it – oh, what a crime it is to be

They ran away from us, children on a winter day. They took torches, tied the mother—the martyr, she corrected— to timber and torched the thing.   Did they mistake her,

Perceive the devil in me long enough and I will become what you see in me I will become the monster you think me to be I will become the

They that summoned me did not understand my essence. Most did not believe in me at all. They thought the ritual was amusing, an entertainment for a dark and rainy

Many believe you’re expected to give up your heart to the land, but that’s nonsense. The land doesn’t care about your heart. It cares about your mind. Every 18 seasons,