If this is a game, then I’ll play it to the end. Love the decay and the day becomes unending. Whittle away, whittle away all the blood of the being. There is no shame, only the dust of dead words speaking. What’s next? There is no throne; there seems no prestige to be owned. Concierpe’s gain... platonic form hides in the function. Oh, martyrs please; your virtue is killing me. The polarity will shift; the mooring’s severed; we’re adrift on oceans of uncertainty. What’s next? My elation? Let’s test it, shall we put it to the floor? If it’s a stage then the actors are in place; the darkness leads to the utterance of your real name.