Buried behind the masked myth of erudition lay I: a broken marionette yearning for acceptance. From tongue to tongue and age to age, I seek company. But for the fear of frivolity and the dreadful scythe of judgement, I spread not my letters on the canvas of humanity.
But when I do, I convolute my letters, supplicating my importance.
Thus scribe I with a foreign tongue the lulls and the yarns of yore, a forlorn epitaph of a cursed populous: thou for whom the bell I tolled, thee shall I forsake.
The Book Of Life 