Words of the Constant
Bundled logs.
An old man of the sea.
What feverish thoughts transpired beneath this?
If they are not in there, where are they?
This home is not a happy one, I fear.
I gnash thee.
Soon it will be nothing but ashes.
Now it doesn't remind me of anything.
It reminds me of a story I used to read with Abigail.
A true bastion of evil.
They hide in their fortress of hate.
Treasures suspended over the bottomless abyss.
A damp death awaits me...
A drop of life in this bleak existence.
It's mostly water. What's the big deal?
It's sticky on my head. Yuck.
The melon is in stasis.
Now it's warm water.
Perfectly shaped for spitting.
I'm not above raiding a grave for loot.
Perhaps someone was playing dress-up. I suppose I missed it.
It feels so... nostalgic.
Do you want me to read you a story, Abigail?
He's better this way.
Its sole existence is to annoy me.
Bits of bug carcass.
A miserable mess, just like life.
It looks sad.
Looks like a fish with a gas problem.
Something this big and dead will surely stink.
It is very big. And very dead.
Whale, ho!
There is the hate of life burning in its eyes!
Can it find happiness?
It only provides the illusion of control.
Monarchs must have tiny heads.
His finery does nothing to mask the smell.
What's it got to be angry about?
What lovely decor.
Hopefully they won't invite me in.
I prefer the dark and windowless depths of my soul.
A reminder of the outside.
A reminder of the outside.
A cold harsh way to see the outside world.
A reminder of the outside.
A reminder of the outside.
A reminder of the outside.
A reminder of the outside.
A reminder of the outside.
A reminder of the outside.