My poor muse,
he sits on his hands and counts the moments to attack;
Sad, abused.
Watches the sun rise: too bright? Fear not, just turn your back.
Who to choose?
In the end, which farce has the ceaseless strength you lack?

With love, my puppet;
- Tarinn Lee Demira, wielding laughter in both hands.

Penned by my hand on the 15th of Severin, in the year 219 MA.