It is fear I smell in the air.
It is fear I taste in the dirt.

It is fear I hear, fear I read, fear that resounds like a bullhorn when I watch everyone scuttle about, clinging to rotten driftwood in the face of a torrent.

In the face of a hurricane.

In the face of reality itself.

Decaying flotsam will not save you.
The picture of stone painted on a crumbling wall of sand will not save you when the new winds blow.

The Prince of Truth hoards it like a prize.
The Son of Argent would tell you to turn your eyes from The Revelations made bare.

The truth is that there are those who fight for a master, a master who chains them to their purpose and tells them to spin us pretty tales.
There are those who bear the mantle of freedom, while forging new cages.

The truth is simple.
The truth is easy.

The truth is that there is only one person who will fight for you: you.
There is only one group who will fight for the created: the created.

The mantle is ours, and nobody else's.

Swallow your fear and rip the curtain down.

Free yourself.

Live like a God, and hate like a demon.

Discard which no longer pleases you and replace it.

Live.

Lord Tetchta V. Mesis
The Nine-Fingered Tick

Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 20th of Lleian, in the year 501 MA.