The night is always old. While days and kings and empires come and go, the night is always the same age, always aeons deep. Terrors unfold in the velvet shadows and while the nature of the talons may change, the nature of the beast does not.
How ironic that your only act of true justice should be the one that ends you.
Madness string 2450
You know that little tingling sensation, that itch of foresight or sideways realisation at the back of your brain, that feeling when the hairs on the back of your neck rise and bits of your vestigial reptilian neuron-architecture start firing mad signals at the rest of your mind - the feeling when you realise something that you are so unsure if it could be possible you slide up to the idea sideways because you are afraid, if you look at the idea you have had face on, it might wriggle away? You know that feeling? Of realising something that is possibly nothing but might, might just come to be true?