Within you is the malady.

A misconceived whim.

The authors are dead

^{some say at least}

The rest are losing reason.

To what are you, new or here before?

• New

• Button

New?

How ill conceived.
Of this place you have never left.

And never will.

The affliction you suffer is part of your tapestry
and from your weave unspo ol e dWhat comes of these loose threads?

• Words
• Images

IMAGES?

The sour times are alleviated.
A kindreds ilk walks the loathsome gallery.

Pray no others follow.

Exact upon the world your filthy stain

Expose your inner repugnance.

WORDS?

Let this journey then befit you.
Words here are of a multitude.

You will tire of them.

Sharpen the blade wandering wordsmith

To flense the ideas from your fingers.