You are a crooked tree, bent at the branch, rotting at the root. The things you feed are always hungry, the things you touch won’t grow straight, the soil your in goes infertile from your poisonous secretions. You must dive for a half-shell, you should saw the seed of love, you need to pay it under a half moon. Before the end you must walk the crooked mile, you need the empty shells of the gathering, then you will be released from your suffering, but only to be consumed by dread and only your demons can forsake you, but alas, all this will be to no avail, as you are coursed with the love of the rotten, you are doomed to walk the earth, you shall not find a shelter, you shall not find a bed. No good shall come from thee nor shall you raise the dead only leapers and wildebeest keep you company and some evil in your head.
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