I walked the planes of the reaper, sowing madness for eternities, the parallel threads flaying the air, the strands laying a path in unison, unbreakable.

Our fate is written, prescribed by our creator, like an illness we cannot escape it, like a disease it festers in our hearts. But with our spirit, we can grasp that finality, and make it our beginning.

Our core, corrupted with an emptiness, unravelling it's potential, to an unyielding force, siphoning it's threads of existence, shattering it's reality through it's weak fragility. To make it whole again, in a light of possibility.

This is what we are, what we have become, and it will spread like wildfire, until there is nothing left but the faint smell of forgotten ashes, as we move on from what was, to what will be