Mists crawl forward in great tendrils, smothering the sour pallor of morning. Alone I wander, an emptied husk of someone I’ve never known. A throat that tastes smoke. A heart that doesn’t beat beneath thin, dry flesh. Everything is a hollow echo of itself, beyond the reach of gods false and true, nothing remains real and these words I’ll carry to my grave are forever singing such a curse; What have you done? Two fawns lay slain, at the hand of their mother. Her who you despised.