I was a being molded for nobility. I was concave, seeking the weight of that which came from heaven; primed for the blight of that which is holy.
Ah, but tis a balm. Tis a current. Tis a voice. The assuaged have woven their nets in which to catch visions, but often they speak in colloquialisms.
Yet I am incapable of duality. My neurons make it so. My organs make it so. My vessels make it so. There are none righteous. There are none who understand.
Is it I alone who can give my hunger a proper name? If not, dare I share the feast? For none could bemoan my false burdens like I do. None could know my nauseous raptures.